


Cats Don't Get Morning Sickness

by Garrae



Series: Cool For Cats [2]
Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Humor, Pregnancy, Romance, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-23 18:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9671462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: A sequel to Felis Felix.  Caskett are unexpectedly pregnant.  Beckett, however, is more concerned with the type of baby they will have... And then with what an unexpected visitor might learn.





	1. Chapter 1

Cats do not suffer from morning sickness, so it is said. No-one, of course, could actually prove this, since cats are also unable to talk.

So it is said.

Well, it is said by everyone except Kate Beckett, also known as Kate Castle, also known as Onyx the pure black Siamese cat, also known as – though she really does _not_ like this one and threatens to kill Castle every time he uses it, which, of course, only confirms the epithet – the Black Death.  Only when she’s in full panther form, naturally, though it is still entirely unreasonable.  Her panther form (also pure ebony night) has never killed anyone.  Except Castle, of course, but that was only temporary in order to turn him into a shapeshifter too.

They’ve been married almost a year now. Alexis is at university, and had moved out as soon as she could, citing her need for independence.  (Beckett also suspects it’s to ensure Castle can’t vet her boyfriends, but she doesn’t mention that.)  Martha had moved out rather earlier, when her acting school took off, claiming that _you two lovebirds should enjoy your privacy_.  It had also coincided with a rather embarrassing incident when she had arrived home from a repertory tour a day or two early.

For two years before Alexis left they’d managed, not without a few scares, to preserve the secret of Beckett’s Onyx alter-ego, by ensuring that Onyx remains seen in the loft. Castle’s proudest moment was the holographic projection in his office that made it look as if Onyx was asleep on his desk (or chair, or floor, or bookshelf) while Beckett was placidly eating her dinner with the family.  Fortunately, courtesy of the random hours of murders and the ability to be merely dating (apparently) for a good long while, they’d got away with it, and then they’d had a year to enjoy themselves without fear.

Beckett’s apartment, however, had become their main playground until the loft had been vacated. Gradually, it had changed from its previous austerity to softer comfort.  The furnishings had altered to accommodate their peculiar, triple lives.  There had been an extra couch, and both were wide, soft and long.  There were a surprisingly large number of scattered bean bags or large cushions distributed about the floor.  There were few ornaments, and those that there had been were carefully placed around the edges of the room, out of reach of lashing tails. 

If any visitor had entered the bedroom, the wide bed with piles of plump pillows would have been no surprise at all, nor would the tasteful linens have been. The scratched, eight foot high wooden post, on the other hand, would certainly have raised eyebrows, and not a few salacious speculations.  Though one or two of those speculations might have been entirely accurate, the truth – that it was a panther-height scratching post – was far stranger than that.

Once the loft was empty, they combined their furniture to convert the loft into the same arrangement, and that’s where they live now, though Castle kept the Hamptons house for them for summers, or random weekends, and Beckett has retained a deal with her dad to use the cabin when they feel the call of the wild.

They each use whichever form they happen to feel like. Castle prefers to be a panther, when not a man.  He _can_ become a large domestic cat: just as Beckett can, also pure black, but much bigger and heavier; but it doesn’t seem very masculine, somehow.  As a panther, however, he has all the advantages of large, lazy felinity, but he can also keep his head in human-Beckett’s lap, where she can pet him and fondle his ears, which he adores.  His adoration tends to lead them in only one direction: towards the bedroom.

Beckett, conversely, tends only to become a panther when she’s feeling frisky – or when they’re going to go out and prowl the New York night to terrorise a few incipient criminals, or take a romantic stroll under the moon in the depths of Central Park. On some nights, for amusement and exercise, they chase squirrels, whose population has been remarkably reduced over the last three years, loping through the park and chasing each other playfully.  She prefers to be Onyx, who can be cuddled and snuggled and petted, and who can perch on Castle’s chest, lap or shoulder, or curl between his forepaws, and purr. 

In bed, however, they’re always human. Only when literally in bed, though.  Out of bed… they might be human, or they might not, although they’re always both in the same form.  Anything else would be, well, squicky.  She’d confessed to a few qualms about cat-form sex, but, to her surprise and considerable relief, the feline adaptations are exceedingly pleasurable.  (Castle had assured her that if it did hurt they could both change back straight away.  Beckett is rather less convinced that they’d have managed the necessary simultaneous switch.)

In short, their strange, triple-natured lives are blissfully happy. Usually.  Today, Beckett is not feeling happy in the slightest.  She is shockingly tired, her stomach is more than a touch unsettled, and she aches in places where a well-made bra should prevent aching, which has replaced her normal cramp.  Not being naïve or stupid, she has a fairly good idea what has happened, and indeed when.  She thinks back to a bare few weeks ago.

They’d gone out to dinner, and had a fair amount of wine: enough for them to be giggly and happy and definitely frisky. Instead of coming home, however, they’d slipped into domestic cat form, and sneaked through the Central Park gates, then made sure they were out of view of the roads and switched to full panther.  Then they’d spent some quality time chasing each other through the park, playfully, as big cats do, and then it had all become serious in a hurry when, also as big cats do, it had turned into a mating game.

So far, so good, no problem. Beckett’s pill works just as well for feline form as for female.  They’d tested that pretty exhaustively.  If only she’d remembered that food poisoning limits its effectiveness.

If only she’d remembered that eating the squirrels they caught was a bad plan. But… they’d had a lovely long run through the Park, and that had worked off dinner, and then their – er – amorous activities had left them both a bit peckish, and the squirrel had, well, just been there, and she’d swiped at it automatically with one large, clawed paw and, well, once it was dead she might as well eat it.  What was _really_ unfair is that Castle had eaten part of it too – he’d had to fight for it – and hadn’t had the slightest hint of a tummy upset. 

She, on the other hand, had had a disturbed stomach for a week. So disturbed, she’d been entirely uninterested in anything at all.

So it is bitterly unfair that she is pretty sure she is pregnant. She’s looking at the test packet, not with any enthusiasm at all, and supposes she’d better get on with it before Castle invades the bathroom by breaking down the locked door.  He, naturally, is totally over-the-top happy.  It’s okay for him, he’s not the one who’s going to feel constantly nauseous, stretch to the size of a whale and, instead of stride confidently, be forced to waddle like a duck for no more than ten minutes at a time before she needs to find yet another restroom.  And they hadn’t planned this.  They were going to wait a while longer.  She isn’t _ready_ for a baby.

All those are worries enough, but they aren’t her main worry.

She has absolutely no intention of subscribing to the ridiculous guilt tripping about never drinking coffee, since – she is _not_ stupid and she is perfectly capable of researching properly peer-reviewed studies – there is no proof whatsoever that a single cup of caffeinated coffee per day will cause any damage at all.  There is also no proof that half a glass of wine once a week will cause damage, though she supposes she’d better check with the ob-gyn first, but anyway even the thought of a glass disturbs her already unhappy stomach.  So she might just survive the next nine months, minus a week or two, without being arrested for mass murder at the Twelfth on account of having no coffee.

Astonishingly, she thinks acidly, as she waits for the test result, the reduction in coffee is not her main concern either.

She will have to put up with Ryan and Esposito turning from perfectly normal colleagues into flapping, clucking, over-protective mother hens. This will be appalling.  They’ll try to stop her doing things – such as interviewing big hairy ugly suspects, or visiting crime scenes, or going to the morgue, or basically just about anything that she needs to do in order to do her job properly.  Though their mother-henly clucking will fade into insignificance compared with Gates’s likely reaction to the news.  She can’t even not tell her.  That would be unprofessional and – much more importantly – would invalidate her healthcare plan, seeing as being freaking pregnant is a material circumstance.  She growls.  Gates will need to be talked to at some length to stop her putting her on significantly restricted duties, but she’s sure if she tries hard enough eventually she’ll cave.

Even that is not her main concern.

Her _main_ concern is exactly what sort of a baby she is going to have. 

Before she can pursue that point, the result comes up. It’s positive.

Aw, _shit_.  It’s not that she didn’t want to have a baby eventually, because she _did_ … just not quite _now_.

“Beckett, what’s the result?” Castle calls from outside the door. She opens it up and hands him the stick.  “That’s wonderful.  We’re going to have a baby!”

“We’re going to have a _kitten_ ,” she says.

Castle’s jaw drops. “What?”

“Or a _cub_ ,” she says even more emphatically.

“What?”

Beckett sighs miserably. “Remember when we talked about this?  You know, when we agreed to wait a couple of years?”

“Ye-es,” Castle says cautiously.

“We were _going_ to find an obstetrician who was very, very discreet.  Because, Castle, we have absolutely no idea whether they will be delivering a baby, a kitten or a panther cub!”  Her voice rises.

“Ah,” he says. “Um.  Yeah.  That might be a tad tricky.”

“You think?” she screeches.

“But Beckett, you told me that when you were human your DNA was totally human, and when you were Onyx you were totally feline. So surely the baby will be the same?”

“Or kitten,” Beckett says crossly. “And how should I know?  No-one’s ever done this before!  It’s all your fault.”

“ _My_ fault?  How’s it my fault?  It takes two.  You certainly haven’t been complaining.”

“If you hadn’t chased me round Central Park after dinner four weeks ago” –

“Oh no, you don’t. You suggested it.  You said _C’mon, Castle, I wanna play_ , and you did filthy dirty suggestive things till we both shifted.”  He pauses.  “Oh.  It was that food poisoning, wasn’t it?  That had _nothing_ to do with me.  You were the one who murdered the squirrel and ate it.”

“You grabbed half of it off me!”

“You swatted me, with your claws half out!”

“You shouldn’t have stolen my squirrel. Anyway, how come you didn’t get food poisoning too?”

“Good luck?” Castle says, which was a serious mistake. He finds this out when Beckett punches him very ungently, and then bursts into tears.  She _hates_ being tearful.  How can the freaking hormones have kicked in already? 

Castle cuddles her in to his abused shoulder, and pets. “C’mon, love.  Okay, it’s maybe not quite ideal, but we’ve coped with pretty much everything else, so we can manage this.  We’ll be fine.”  He sweeps her up in his arms, and deposits them both on one of the large couches.  She snuggles into him, insensibly reassured by his wide frame and strong arms around her – even if she is still cross with him for getting them into this mess – and turns into Onyx, who can be cuddled and cossetted and petted.

Two seconds later she shifts back to Beckett, wide eyed and terrified.

“What if shifting hurts the baby? I can’t hurt the baby!”

Castle doesn’t think before he speaks. This is not unusual and generally not at all helpful.  Now is no exception.  “Well, since you’ve shifted once or twice a day for the last four weeks it’s a bit late to worry now,” he rumbles.  That is so far from reassuring as to be appalling.  She cries harder.  “I don’t think it can, sweetheart.  It’s as much part of you as anything, and I’m sure it’s all fine.  We’ll find a very discreet obstetrician right away,” he says.  “I’m sure we don’t need to tell them anything, um, _tricky_ , right now.”

Beckett would argue, but her stomach chooses that moment to tell her it’s about to invert. She dashes for the bathroom, and is unpleasantly and violently sick.  She sits shakily on the bathroom floor, from where Castle collects her in a moment and takes her back to the couch, where he pets her soothingly.  It’s about the first useful thing he’s done since they got home.

“I don’t want to have to stay Beckett all the time,” she wails.

Wisely, Castle doesn’t say a word. She’d be very sorry if he were dead, or gravely injured, but it would all be a bit too late if he keeps making stupid statements.

“I don’t wanna have morning sickness.” She can _hear_ Castle thinking _it’s not morning_ , but since he still keeps his fat mouth firmly shut she can ignore it.  “I don’t wanna be exhausted like I am now.”  She starts to freaking _cry_ again, and hates it even more.  Clearly God is not female.  If He had been, men would suffer – that is emphatically _not_ an accidental choice of verb – pregnancy and all the associated troubles.  Which would serve them damn well right.

It’s not fair. She – she thinks again, even more bitterly – can’t be hormonal already.  She only just saw the damn sign on the damn stick.  It’s like Pavlov’s freaking dogs, which is totally _not on_ because she’s a _cat_ and cats do _not_ do what some dumb psychologist tells them to do.

Another horrible thought hits her mind and exits her mouth without pausing. “What if I have a _litter_?” she whimpers.  “I’m not ready for _one_ baby yet.  What’ll we do with four, or six?”

“Hire two nannies,” Castle says smoothly, “and do a TV deal that’ll pay their college fees.”

Beckett manages a very soggy snigger, and then dashes for the bathroom again. Castle follows her, but stays outside till invited in.

“And how long do I have to put up with this crap?” she whines. She is sure that Castle is thinking _wrong end for crap_ , but since he doesn’t say it she ignores it.  Again.  She gets the feeling she’ll be ignoring a lot of unspoken commentary, if she’s to stay sane.

“You’re tired, sweetheart,” Castle says gently. “C’mon.  Bedtime.  Stay as Beckett tonight.  Who do you want me to be?”

“You. Human you.”

“’Kay. While you’re getting yourself ready for bed – how about I run you a bath?”

“Oh, _please_.  A lovely hot bath.  Bubbles?”

“Lots of bubbles. I’ll go do that now.”

Simply for the suggestion of a hot bubble bath, she’s _almost_ prepared to forgive him for getting her knocked up.

Then she has yet _another_ horrible thought.  “How long am I going to be pregnant for?  I’m sure cats aren’t pregnant for nine months?  How are we going to explain that?”  Though it’s going to be a damn sight easier than explaining either a litter or why the obstetrician is holding a just-expelled _kitten_.  Oh God.  Eurgh.  She really doesn’t want to think about giving birth.   Especially if it involves _claws_.  She winces reflexively.

“I’ll look. While you’re in the bath, I’ll get my laptop and we can look up obstetricians and gestation periods.”  There is a swishing noise as Castle, presumably, tests the temperature.  He’d better not try babying her.  Though a bit of babying right now when she’s tired and wants to be cosseted and can’t even turn into Onyx and be cuddled and petted in her favourite form for being cuddled and petted – would be pretty good.  She droops through to the bathroom and brushes her teeth, without throwing up again, though it’s a bit of a close run thing.

“I don’t _like_ being pregnant,” she wails.  Castle, again wisely, says absolutely nothing, and inducts her into the bath.  She slides down into the warmth and the bubbles.  “I want a drink.  Scratch that, I _need_ a drink.  I wanted a baby but _not yet_!  This wasn’t the plan!”

Castle returns with his laptop. “Let’s see now.  Domestic cats” –

“I am not _domesticated_.”

“It’s a technical term. Stop quibbling.  Anyway, cats – oh.  64-67 days.”

“That’s only nine weeks. If that’s what happens I’m practically halfway through and I haven’t had any vitamins or folic acid or anything and I’ve been drinking eight cups of coffee a day and wine when we felt like it and everything and what if I’ve _hurt_ the baby already?”

“You won’t have hurt the baby. Most people don’t know for the first few weeks and do all the wrong things, and most babies are just fine.  And I guess if you were halfway through, you’d look like it.  And you don’t.  Not even a hint of a bump.  Let’s see about panthers.  Hmm… twelve to fourteen weeks.  Two to four in a litter,” he says happily.  “We’d have a ready made family.”

“We’ve _got_ a family.”  She sinks under the bubbles and wails again.  “You’re not to tell _anyone_.  I can’t stand the thought of being fussed at by anyone but you, and I can’t take much of you doing it either.”

Castle nods. This is the only safe response.

“I’ve found a list of very discreet ob-gyn practices. I’ll call one first thing and get them to squeeze us in.  Um…”

“Yeah?” she says, tired now.

“We _should_ be just about able to have a scan, but you might need to wait a few days.  It says you can have an early scan from six weeks, and that would tell us if it’s one baby or more.  Maybe just wait to shift till after the scan.”

“’Kay.” She pauses.  “See the baby already?  Really?”  That sounds better.  See her baby? 

“Yep.”

“Okay.” She heaves herself out of the bath, and Castle wraps her protectively in a towel.  She’s so upended by the whole affair that she doesn’t argue.  Instead, Castle argues, when she drops the towel.

“You’ll be cold,” he says.

“I wanna see,” she grumps. She twists and turns and stares – glares – at the mirror.  There is not a hint of a bump.  Good.  She likes her figure like this, with a waist.

“You’re going to be just as gorgeous,” Castle points out. Beckett does not think so.  Whale sized is not a good look.  Nor is a waddling shuffle.  (A whuffle?  That sounds like a small dog, sleeping.  Or Castle snoring.  A shaffle?  Whatever it is, she doesn’t want to be doing it.)

Beckett slides into bed, half convinced that the universe hates her. When she wakes up, and the first thing she has to do is throw up, she’s sure of it.


	2. Chapter 2

“Ugh,” she emits. More coherent speech is presently beyond her.  Pregnancy, so far, has _major_ design flaws.  Throwing up is one of them.  Emotional surges are another.  She is not – has never been – a woman prone to over-emotional histrionics or tears.  Her cool, calm, intimidating personality is legendary and she does not want her legend damaged.   And the tiredness is a third design flaw.  Her stamina is excellent. _Was_ excellent.  The last few days she’s felt feeble, and she does _not_ appreciate it.

Pregnancy is quite definitely over-hyped. Bloom?  What freaking bloom?  She’s a delicate shade of green. _Bloom_ implies a pleasant pink.  She sits on the bathroom floor – just like last night, because she can’t muster the energy to haul herself up.  If she’d known it was going to be like this, she’d have put Castle in for a vasectomy.  Or had him neutered, though that might have major disadvantages.  Come to think of it, he keeps evading the possibility of getting chipped himself, which is also deeply unfair because she has no way of removing the chip he put in her.  Her life is just one big muddy puddle of unfairness.

At that inauspicious moment Castle pads in. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy,” Beckett says with as much sarcasm as she can muster, which is far less than she would like.   “I just love the smell of vomit in the morning.”

“This isn’t Apocalypse Now,” Castle says. Beckett is not nearly so sure.  If it’s not Apocalypse Now, it’s going to be Apocalypse Later.  Later meaning anything from the next time she throws up to the baby, or cub, or kitten – _aarrrgggghhhhh!_ – arriving. 

And there’s yet another design flaw. Why does six to nine pounds of humanity (or proportionate weight of felinity) have to arrive through such a narrow channel and in such a painful way?  Well, she is not into pain.  If she was suffering a broken leg she’d have anaesthetic as it was set, so if she has to suffer giving birth she is damn well having every good drug going.  Other people can do the Earth Mother bit as much as they like: that’s their choice.  She wants pain relief – by the truckload.  Why couldn’t they have artificial wombs, or something _helpful_?  What use is science if it can’t give you your baby without all that pain and mess?

Castle does something useful, and cuddles her. Then he helps her stand up, and keeps on cuddling her.  If she could only be Onyx, he could pick her up, and carry her around till she felt less exhausted.

“Cats don’t get morning sickness,” she says, out of nowhere.

“What?”

“Cats don’t get morning sickness.”

“Are you sure?”

“Even if they do, it’s not going to be like this – get out, Castle!”

She is so over this morning sickness thing already, and she only found out she was pregnant yesterday. Castle comes back in, and rubs her back comfortingly.

“We’ll call the obstetrician first thing. Call in sick, Beckett, and come back to bed.”

“Going to bed with you is what got me in this state in the first place,” she growls, but she lets him lead her back to bed.

“We could always just cuddle,” Castle says, and does so.

“Damn right we’ll just cuddle,” Beckett says, but it’s completely non-snarky and she’s cuddled in very comfortably.

At eight, she calls in sick. It is not difficult to sound ill, especially when she has to cut the call in a hurry.  She did not need Gates’ chilly sympathy.  When she calls back, she assumes her most forcefully respectful tone, and asks her not to tell the boys.  She also tells Gates, over her considerable disbelief and far too many more coldly sympathetic noises, that she is absolutely fine and does not need to be put on restricted duties.  Gates – _aargh_ – is not convinced.  On the other hand, she does say that she will see her before she makes any decisions, and she is quite sure that she can persuade her doctor to see reason.  If she has to go on restricted duty, she might well start killing people.  She supposes she could always dispose of the bodies by eating them.  Her panther form wouldn’t mind a bit.

Castle slithers out of bed, which she doesn’t appreciate. On the other hand, he’s gone in the direction of the kitchen, which might mean breakfast.  Oh.  She’s just thought of eating without it immediately causing vomiting, which is a considerable improvement on the position two hours ago.  She thinks balefully that it’s astonishing anyone ever has more than one child, and then even more balefully that she might not get the choice.  Litters, dear Christ!  If it wasn’t for the fact that doing this without him would be an even worse idea, she’d kill Castle for getting her into this.  The thought, however, is quite satisfying, especially with some bloodthirsty imagery.

Shortly, Castle slithers back into the bedroom, carrying a tray with toast and – oh, thank the Lord – coffee.

“I guessed you’d be ready to try something,” he says, smiling happily.

Of course he can smile, he’s not the one throwing up his toenails. Where’s a time jump when you need one?  If she could just arrive at the point where her baby (or kitten, or cub) had just been given to her, without going through any of the intervening nine months, mess or pain, she’d be totally happy.  They might not have planned this for right now, but she’s coming round to the _result_ of the acceleration of the plan pretty fast.  The implementation period, not so much.  A good night’s sleep and Castle’s soothingly confident approach helps.

She takes a tentative nibble at her toast, finds that the three crumbs she has swallowed do not cause her stomach to rebel, and nibbles slowly through it, taking equally tentative sips of her coffee – and, since it’s the only one she’ll get today, savouring them in full.

“Better?” Castle asks.

“Yeah. Thanks.”  She smiles at him, rather sidelong.  “I guess we’d better find that ob-gyn practice now.”

Castle smiles back. “I did some research last night.  I’ve got a list, like I said.”  He looks at her a bit worriedly.  “Um… you are happy about this baby, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I am. I was just a bit” – a lot – “shocked.  We didn’t plan this, and I’m scared of what’s going to happen.  But I definitely want her.”

“Him.”

“Her. I’m the one who’s pregnant and if I say it’s a her it’s a her.”

“What if it’s a them?”

“I’m not thinking about that.” She buries her face in his neck.  “I _do_ want her.  I’m just _not ready_ ,” emerges, muffled.

Castle pats her. “No-one is.  I sure wasn’t.  It’ll be fine.”  He pats some more, neatly avoiding scattering crumbs or spilling Beckett’s coffee.  “Let’s look at this list.”

Beckett does so. It’s not a long list, which is helpful: in fact, it’s only three doctors long.  She doesn’t want to have to make lots of decisions.  She just wants someone to tell her that it’s _one_ baby and that it’s all going to be okay.

“Okay, let’s see this one and decide if we trust her to keep this very, very quiet indeed.”

“We could always blame the need for privacy on the press,” Castle says, which is a good thought. A very good thought.  Unfortunately, it’s not going to work.  Dammit.

“It won’t work,” she says depressedly. “We’re going to have to explain what’s going on.  We’ll really need to stress medical confidentiality here.”

This whole thing is suddenly getting really, horribly complicated. And it had all started because Castle had discovered her secret.  If she’d simply never succumbed to the temptation to find out how he really felt by introducing him to Onyx,  they wouldn’t be in this position. _Yes you would,_ says a nasty little voice in her head, _and imagine how you’d explain to Castle now that he might, quite literally, be having kittens_.  She can’t hold back a snort.

“What is it?”

“Just thinking that if I’d never mentioned Onyx and you’d never found out this would be an even more complicated discussion than it already is.”

Castle grins widely. “Yeah.  I’m pretty sure they don’t cover shapeshifters in the wedding prep classes.”  He hugs her in, which is very nice and just what she needs right now.  “C’mon.  Let’s go do this.”

Beckett, much to her relief, manages to have a shower, wash her hair and get dressed without any further unfortunate stomach rebellions. She has another look at her lithe form.  Not a hint of a bump.  It’s almost disappointing.  As is the fact that Castle didn’t follow her into the shower.

“Where were you?” she says pathetically, as they cross paths. She’s suddenly tired, and she’s only been on her feet for half an hour.

“I didn’t want to make you sick again. It might set up a phobia, and that would be terrible.  I’m not risking you having a phobia of me.”

“I don’t feel sick now.”

Castle, helpfully, draws her in and cuddles her. “Good.  Give me ten, and we’ll go.  I called the car service.”

Beckett lies back down on their very comfortable bed, propped up on their Everest-sized pile of pillows, till Castle’s ready.

“Beckett, Beckett, wake up!”

“Not asleep,” she slurs, utterly truthfully. She just closed her eyes for a moment.  Not asleep at all.

“I’ve been watching you sleep for ten minutes.”

“What?” No-one told her pregnancy equalled instant-onset narcolepsy.  That’s a whole new level of exhausted.  “No.  Couldn’t be.  I was just waiting here for you.”

“The car’s downstairs. Let’s go.”

Beckett doesn’t want to. The bed is comfy.  She is comfy.  Surely sleep would be better for her – oh.  She needs to know if she can shift.  If she could shift, she could avoid the morning sickness.

“’Kay.”

Castle cossets her delicately all the way to the car, all the way to the doctor, and in the waiting room. Finally, they’re called in, a mere moment before Beckett loses control of her eyelids.  Which would be okay, except that they’ve only been there ten minutes.  Consequent upon her extreme hatred of her own body’s weakness, Beckett walks in with a ferocious scowl which takes the doctor somewhat aback.  Although she feels a bit guilty, to say the least, about terrorising the doctor, Beckett is also rather pleased that she can still frighten respectable people with nothing to hide (she hopes: it would be so embarrassing to arrest your own doctor), with one glare.

“Hello. I’m Dr Maine.  Nice to meet you, Mr and Mrs Castle.”

Dr Maine is probably pushing fifty-five and comfortably shaped rather than tightly toned. Her hair is a pleasant mid-brown, without the frequent silver strands concealed, her dark blue eyes kind and crinkled with laughter lines at the corners.  Her make up is minimal, her hands and nails very neat and somehow competent.  Beckett likes her instantly, which is astonishingly unusual.  Beckett hates doctors, and they normally hate her right back.  It usually means she’s been hurt on the job, which does nothing for her temper or social interactions.

“Hi,” they say in sync. Dr Maine blinks in surprise, which is a fairly normal reaction from strangers meeting their mind-meld and synchronised answering for the first time.

“And you’ve taken a positive pregnancy test. Okay, let’s do the basics.”

Dr Maine takes a competent and rapid history. Beckett likes her even better.  No fussing around, no diabetes inducing sugar-sweet nonsense about how delighted they must be, no messing.  Dr Maine, in fact, is exactly her kind of doctor, if she must have a doctor.  She doesn’t even blink when Beckett tells her she’s a cop, and Castle admits to being a writer and a (previously) stay-at-home parent with a grown daughter.  The fact that it takes Dr Maine several minutes and four pages of her list to realise that Castle is _Richard_ Castle, celebrity star writer, is particularly amusing.  For Beckett.  Castle pouts.

Unfortunately, they can’t spend the whole appointment on the history, which Beckett finds to be a previously undiscovered non-virtue of efficiency.

“There’s nothing in your history to give me any immediate cause for concern,” Dr Maine says. “Let’s get some bloods done, your blood pressure and a urine sample, and then you can tell me why you needed such an urgent appointment.  Your husband said you both wanted an early scan.”   She – efficiently – sends Beckett out to the phlebotomist to have bloods taken and tells her to produce and provide the other sample, and then to return.  Sadly, upon her return Castle has not managed to explain anything in the interim. _Men!_ she thinks to herself.

“Right.” Dr Maine counts up under her breath.  “You’re just on six weeks, on the usual calculations.  You’ll be due round about the third week of June.  Six weeks is right at the outside limit for an early scan.  It would be better if you could wait a week, or even two.”

“I can’t,” Beckett blurts out, and then looks furious with herself. Since when did pregnancy remove her normal sense and filters?

Dr Maine looks very surprised. “Is there a problem you haven’t told me about?  I thought I’d reassured you about the coffee and occasional glass of wine before you knew.”

Beckett looks at Castle, who’s been suspiciously quiet for the last few moments. “Um…” she says, “er, there’s sort of an…er… genetic issue.”

“You should really have mentioned it. The history I took was very wide-ranging, and you didn’t say there was a potential issue then.”  Dr Maine looks both irritated and disappointed.

“Yeah, well, um… it’s a bit difficult.”

Castle steps in. About freaking time.  This is all his fault anyway.  If he’d stolen and eaten the whole squirrel like he usually does, they’d not be in this mess.

“Dr Maine, before we carry on, we really need to know that you won’t discuss the nature of our – er – genetic issue with anyone at all. Not even your most trustworthy practice nurse.  Nobody.  In fact, we don’t even want you to write this down.”

“What? That’s ridiculous.  There is nothing that I would be prepared to leave out of your notes.  It’s highly dangerous and unprofessional.”

Castle puts his ridiculously attractive big blue eyes and puppy dog look to good use. Dr Maine is softening even before he opens his mouth.  “Doctor, I know this sounds ridiculous.  But please just hear us out before you say absolutely not?”

Dr Maine reluctantly nods. Castle stops talking.  Beckett nudges him.  There is a moment’s embarrassed silence, until Dr Maine produces a very irritated cough.

“Um…” Castle says, “you’re not going to believe this, but…”

“Do carry on,” Dr Maine says sarcastically. “I can’t wait to find out what genetic issue is so appalling and unbelievable that it can’t be put in your notes.”

“I’m a shapeshifter,” Beckett blurts out. “So’s he.  Cats.”

“Panther,” Castle says petulantly. “I’m a panther.  Just ‘cause you like being a Siamese.”

Dr Maine appears to be choking on some previously undisclosed small object.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Beckett says with emphasis, “that’s not the point.  The point is,” she babbles, “I hate morning sickness already and cats don’t get morning sickness but I’m scared to shift in case it hurts my baby but I’ve been shifting and I need to know the baby is okay and I don’t want to have a litter and she might be born as kittens.”

Dr Maine is currently apparently suffering an apoplexy. Finally she manages to find a voice.  “Did you come here simply to waste my time?” she says furiously.  “Do you get some sort of kicks out of wasting valuable doctors’ time just because you’re rich and famous?  You don’t need to see an obstetrician.  You need to see a psychiatrist.”

“No, really,” Castle says. Dr Maine opens her mouth on another tirade and begins to stand up.  There is a brief sighing noise, and she collapses into her chair.  Castle, with an unusual display of discretion, although it’s more likely that he didn’t think he’d fit in the consulting room as a panther, is now in cat form.   Dr Maine appears to have suffered a second apoplexy.  Castle-cat jumps up on to her desk, and regards her.  He jumps back down once, it seems to Beckett, he has decided that she will not actually suffer a cardiac arrest; there is another small sighing noise, and he reappears in human form.

“She can do it too,” Castle says, helpfully. The doctor, unsurprisingly, gibbers.

After about half a minute Beckett’s never-extensive patience, still further shortened by pregnancy, expires. “Stop gibbering,” she raps.  “It’s real, you’ve just seen it, now suck it up and deal with it.”

Dr Maine clearly also has limited tolerance for dissent. “That is uncalled for, young lady,” she snaps back.  “You can hardly blame me for disbelieving you.”  She acquires a very speculative glance.

“No,” Beckett says firmly. “You can’t.”

“I want to get those bloods back,” Dr Maine tries.

“They’ll be fully human. Right down to the DNA.  Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.”

“And the microchip,” Castle says very happily and unhelpfully. Dr Maine looks at him in a most peculiar fashion and very obviously decides not to ask any questions at all about that.

“Do it again?” she says, and then, “You said _panther_?”

Castle, who is never shy of showing off, much to Beckett’s continuing disgust, turns tidily back into a large domestic cat, struts round the room and then jumps up into Beckett’s lap, from where Dr Maine can see him.

“Panther,” Beckett says wearily. “Men, you know?  Can’t possibly be something as small and cute as an ordinary cat.  Gotta be macho.” 

Dr Maine looks very understandingly sympathetic. “For sure,” she agrees.  Castle flicks his tail offendedly, jumps off Beckett’s lap on to the floor and converts himself into his panther form.  Dr Maine gasps.  “Uh… does he bite?”

“Only if I ask nicely,” Beckett says without thinking. Dr Maine snorts.  Castle sneezes, and shifts back.

“And you ask so very nicely,” he says salaciously.

“Shut up, Castle.”

“Okay,” Dr Maine says, surprisingly evenly. “I can see why you wouldn’t want any of this anywhere it could be found.”  She wrinkles her nose, and then smiles in a motherly fashion.  “I think, in the – er – unusual circumstances, we can manage not to write any of it down at all.  I have no desire to be struck off for insanity, and I’m sure you two don’t want to have to testify at the hearing.”

“Damn straight,” Beckett says.

“Though I would like to know how this came about. You’re not at all how the books would have it.”

“Can we maybe save that for another time?” Beckett asks. “I wanna know if shifting has hurt my baby.  And if it’s only one baby.  I don’t want a litter!”

“Let’s take this back a stage. Mrs Castle” –

“Call me Kate. I get the feeling we’re gonna be seeing a lot of each other.”

“Kate. I’m Alison.  Now, do I understand correctly that you are also able to shift into a domestic cat?”

“Yes.”

“She sure does. A pure black Siamese called Onyx.  She’s gorgeous.”

Both women regard him with identically disapproving glares. Castle shuts up.

“And I can be a panther too, if I want.”

“Okay. Right.”  Dr Maine takes a moment or two in which she is quite clearly trying to reprogram her brain to accept the existence of shapeshifters.  Beckett is really very impressed that she’s not still gibbering, running for the door, or calling the police. _Especially_ calling the police.  That would be deeply embarrassing.


	3. Chapter 3

“Hang on a minute,” the doctor says. “Are all those sightings of two big cats around Manhattan and in Central Park _you_?  They’re _real_?”

“Er… yes?”

Dr Maine acquires an expression of satisfied realisation, and then appears to remember where she is, shortly before Beckett, who now simply wants to get on with it, reminds her. Forcefully.

“Right. Okay.  I think we’d better start at the beginning.  Explain how you’re a shapeshifter, Kate?  Were you born one?”

“No. I was dating someone at university, and I got….um…a bit drunk one Halloween, and the last thing I remember about that night was dreaming I’d been bitten through the throat by a black panther under a full moon.  But when I woke up I was still me.”

Dr Maine leans forward, far too fascinated for Beckett’s liking. “And?”

“Um, I needed a quick get out of a sticky situation and I wished I could just disappear and suddenly I was a cat. I was a bit surprised,” she adds, with an exceptional degree of understatement.  “So to cut a long story very short, I messed around a bit and found that I could be a Siamese cat or a panther or me.”

“And then you, romantically under a full moon, bit through my jugular on Halloween three years ago,” Castle says, soulfully and smoothly, “and here we are.”

“I see,” Dr Maine says, rather wild-eyed. “And now you’re pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“It was all the squirrel’s fault,” Castle says unhelpfully. She is going to kill him. 

“Squirrel?”

“The squirrel isn’t relevant,” Beckett snaps, and kicks Castle before he can be even more unhelpful.

“Okay. You’ve taken a test, you said?”

“Yes.”

Beckett has a sudden appalled foreknowledge of the next question. She’s blushing luridly before it’s even asked.

“Which form were you in when you got pregnant?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I don’t know,” Dr Maine says. Well, at least the woman is honest.  “It’s not like anyone’s ever seen this before, is it?”  She’s got them there, dammit.  “I don’t know what might be important and what isn’t.”

“Panther,” Beckett drags out. Dr Maine fortunately declines to comment.   She turns to her computer and taps for a second.  “Twelve weeks,” she says, which would be incomprehensible if it weren’t for the fact that Beckett knows perfectly well to what she’s referring.  “Hm.  You don’t look anything like you’re halfway along.  I think we can assume that – at least in this form – matters will be more or less normally timed.  However, let’s try the scan and see what that tells us.”

Beckett does not like the cold gel, nor the horrible sticky feeling on her stomach, nor the pressure on her bladder. The picture isn’t exactly how she imagined either.  It’s all shades of grey and wiggly lines which mean nothing.  She’d hoped it was a bit more… er … informative.  Castle had said she would get to _see_ her baby, and she can’t.  It’s worse than street cam footage from the unlit corners round Canal Street.  Humph.

Dr Maine peers at it, runs the scanning wand over Beckett’s sticky stomach again, and peers some more, frowning. This is not a good start.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s very early, and it’s hard to pick anything up – ah, there we are.  Oh.  Oh my.”

“What!” Castle and Beckett say in unison.

“Congratulations, you’re having twins.”

“Two?!”

“Wonderful!” Castle says.

“ _Two_?!” Beckett says again.

“It could have been worse, Beckett. It could have been four.”

That is not at all helpful. She’d only just got her head round _one_ baby.  Now she’s got to get it round two.

“Are they babies or kittens?” she asks weakly.

“You can’t tell right now.” Dr Maine regards Beckett with some sympathy.  “We can do another scan next time, and maybe we’ll have a better idea.”

“Okay. But can I shift?  I hate morning sickness already and cats don’t get morning sickness.”

Dr Maine wrinkles her nose again. “How often did you say you’d shifted in the last six weeks?”

“’Bout twice a day. Right up till yesterday.”

“Mm.” She ponders.  “And when you’re you it’s right down to the DNA?”

“Yeah. And when I’m a cat it’s right down to the DNA too.”

“And shifting doesn’t hurt you?”

“Nope. Not at all.”

“Definitely not like the books,” the doctor mutters. She frowns gently at the screen and Beckett, who doesn’t really appreciate it.  “Kate, the only thing I can think of is that you shift now, and I try and take a scan from that.  I’m not at all happy about the idea, but if you’ve shifted every day till yesterday then I don’t think we could do any damage that wouldn’t already have occurred.  Er… I think you’d better be a panther.  It’s bigger.”

“You don’t think it’ll do any damage?”

“Truthfully? I haven’t a clue.  We’re all working blind here.  What I do think is that I’ve picked up two heartbeats already, so they must be quite strong.  Stronger than they might normally be at this stage.”  Dr Maine suddenly looks very uncertain.  “It’s possible that you might be further along than we think.”

Beckett makes a small gleeping noise.  Castle looks delighted.  “We’d get them sooner?” he grins.  “Awesome.”  Another two disapproving glances hit his impervious skull.

“I don’t wanna hurt them,” Beckett says.

Castle finally does something useful and picks up her hand. “I don’t think it will.  If it doesn’t hurt your clothes, which aren’t even part of you, it’s not going to hurt the babies.”

“Clothes?” Dr Maine says feebly.

“They just disappear, and come back. As long as they’re natural fibre,” Castle says.

“Not relevant,” Beckett raps. “Let’s do this.”

A second later a panther is lying on the bed. Dr Maine manages, with most impressive control, not to squeak.  Strangely, the gel is still on her stomach.  Beckett supposes that the gel is not natural, and therefore doesn’t disappear when she shifts.  She yawns, very widely.  She’s tired.  It’s not until she realises that Dr Maine is staring at her very sharp teeth in absolute terror that she thinks that maybe that wasn’t such a great plan.  Not that she’d planned to yawn.  She shuts her mouth, and doesn’t make the mistake of trying to smile.

The doctor waves the wand over panther-Beckett’s abdomen and eventually locates the right place, by which time her tail is lashing impatiently.

“Still two heartbeats,” she says after a short time. “Look here,” and she taps on the screen.  “Those tadpole shapes?  Those are your babies.  Heartbeat just as strong in this form as human, so whatever they are, I think you can shift safely.”  She thinks for a further moment.  “Interestingly, they’re at the same stage of gestation in your panther form as they are when you were human.”  The wand is taken away.  “I think you’d better change back now.”  Beckett does, with alacrity.  She wants to wipe her tummy clean, and cat-like, she has a horrible urge to wash herself with her tongue.  Dr Maine hands her a handful of wet wipes without needing to be asked.

“Can we have a copy of the scan?” she asks hopefully. From the look on his face she’s only a second ahead of Castle.

“Sure. The nurse will have it when you leave.”  She taps her pen on the desk.  “Okay.  I have to say, this is weird.  But I think we can manage it.  I’ll have your bloods back tomorrow, and I’ll let you know the results. _One_ cup of coffee or tea per day, the rest decaf.  A small glass of wine once a week won’t kill you, but no more.  Eat healthily.”

“No squirrels, Beckett,” Castle says mischievously. She kicks him.  Dr Maine ignores him, magnificently. 

“Take folic acid and a good vitamin supplement designed for pregnancy.”

“I’ll make sure of that,” Castle says, smirking. Beckett growls.

“Exercise – no sparring or drills. Gym work or running is okay, but be more careful and don’t fall over.  Your balance may be off.  Sex – if you feel like it.  If you’re vomiting excessively, call me at once.  Multiple births are more likely to produce excessive vomiting.”  There is a short and revolting discussion of how much is too much, and how to minimise it.  Ugh.  “Any bleeding, come right here or go to the ER.”  She taps some more.  “I’ll have to put all the human results in the records.  The rest… I’ll not say a word.”

“Thanks,” they say in unison.

“Now, make an appointment for two weeks’ time. We’ll monitor you pretty closely, because it’s twins.  Standard practice.  Like I said, their heartbeats are stronger than I’d expect.”

Beckett makes a childish face. Nice as Dr Maine seems to be, she doesn’t like doctors and she doesn’t like the sound of monitoring every two weeks.  And now she really, really doesn’t like the thought of explaining to Gates.

“Okay, thank you.”

They make their appointment, and leave.

Castle is ecstatically happy. “Twins, Beckett!  Twins!  It’s amazing!”

His enthusiasm is very, very sweet. It’s also very, very irritating.  Irritation is about to start winning.  She’s tired and, she realises, hungry, which is no doubt fuelling her irritation.

“I’m hungry,” she emits.

“It’s almost lunchtime. Let’s go to Remy’s and you can have a lovely big burger.”

That… sounds surprisingly good. She supposes, rather fretfully, that she’d better have a salad, too.  On the other hand, she needs calcium, right?  So she has every excuse to have an extra-large milkshake.  That makes her a bit happier.

“I’d better go and explain to Gates,” she says, after inhaling her burger, eating her salad with no more than moderate enthusiasm, and disposing of all of her milkshake.

“I’ll come too,” Castle says, finishing his own lunch rather more slowly.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to. Besides, I don’t want you to be fired or arrested for taking a swing at her when she tells you what you’re allowed to do.  Or not do.”

Beckett growls, but privately allows to herself that Castle might well have a point.

“And you were pretty sick this morning, so I’m going to take care of you. As soon as we get home, you can shift into Onyx and be petted as much as you like without feeling sick at all.”

Now that sounds good. That sounds really good.  She puts her hand over Castle’s, and squeezes.  “Thanks, babe.”

The precinct is fairly quiet. Specifically, the boys are missing.  Hopefully, they’re out to lunch.  Beckett really does not fancy the explanations at all.  She wouldn’t tell Gates except she has to.  She knocks politely.

“Sir?”

“Detective Beckett and Mr Castle.” Gates smiles very coldly.  Castle shuts the door, and stands close enough to Beckett to stop her doing anything silly, or more likely, murderous.  “I guess you have some news for me?”

“Yes, sir,” Beckett says woodenly.

“We’re going to have twins!” Castle announces.  Gates’s jaw drops.

“Yessir,” Beckett adds.

“Twins?” Gates squeaks faintly.  “Twins? _Two_ of you?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Castle bounces. “Mini-me and mini-you, Beckett!  It’ll be wonderful.”

Beckett thinks about how she had been as a child, and the stories Martha had told. _Wonderful_ is not actually the word she had first thought of. _Terrifying_ had seemed more appropriate.  Gates looks almost as horrified as Beckett had.

“Yessir.”

“I see.”

“Don’t put me on restricted duties yet, sir, _please_.  I’ll go crazy.”

“She will,” Castle says helpfully. Not.  Gates casts Castle a fulminating glare.

“I’ll be careful. Just don’t make me sit here all day.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“Take care, no sparring, no drills. She didn’t say desk duty.”

Gates frowns at her desk, Castle and Beckett in equal shares. Beckett holds both Gates’s piercing gaze and her breath.  Fortunately, she doesn’t have to wait until she turns purple.

“Okay, Detective Beckett. As long as you let Detectives Ryan or Esposito take the lead in any situation where it might be dangerous, then I won’t restrict you.  Yet,” she adds ominously.  “If you do anything stupid, I’ll have you on desk duty for the rest of the time right away, no appeal.”

“Yessir.”

“And Beckett?”

“Sir?”

“Congratulations,” Gates says, commendably sincerely. “If you need to be a few minutes later in the morning for a week or two, I shall be lenient.”

“Thank you, sir. It should be okay.  The doctor gave me a prescription.”  Just as well Gates doesn’t know that the prescription was to shift into Onyx for a little while.  Causing your Captain to have a heart attack is a career limiting move.

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yessir. Thank you, sir.”

They escape before the boys are back, fortunately.

The instant they get home, Beckett slips her shoes off, then thinks for a moment, goes and changes into a t-shirt and sweatpants, (it’s useful to be dressed if someone should call) and then sits on the couch and becomes Onyx. Castle sits down next to her and picks her up to cradle her on his shoulder.  Shortly, she’s asleep, or as close as makes no difference.  He pets her anyway, and keeps her there, carefully balanced, while he retrieves his laptop.  He taps away contentedly with Onyx safely against him. 

He is quite delighted that they’re having babies. He knows that they’d intended to wait another year or so, and plan it, but he can’t help the bubble of happiness.  He’d been a bit worried about Beckett yesterday, but even in the midst of her snark she’d been terrified the baby – babies – would have been hurt by shifting, and today she’d been really protective about them too.  Beckett expresses all her love in protection, ergo, she’s already in love with the babies.  Just like he is.

After a couple of hours, in which Onyx-Beckett doesn’t move, she finally twitches an ear.

“Awake?” Castle murmurs, and brings her off his shoulder. “That’s good.”  She curls in his lap, and flicks a tail.  Castle strokes her, and then scratches behind her ears till she purrs softly.  “You’ve been asleep for hours.  Wanna change back and have a drink?  We’ve got soda, or herbal tea.  Non-caffeinated.”

Onyx wriggles bonelessly and then turns back into Beckett, who kisses him in a very leisurely fashion which nonetheless sends little sparkles of flame down his nerves before she slips off the couch to switch the kettle on.

She feels much better for her sleep, and in particular for being asleep as Onyx, on Castle’s broad shoulder. Maybe, if she can be Onyx quite a lot, this pregnancy thing won’t be so bad.  Though she’d still like to time-jump the whole nine months and have her baby.  Babies. _Two_ babies.  Or _kittens_.  Oh God.

The rest of the evening passes off peacefully. Beckett shifts back into Onyx after dinner, during which meal they each exert astonishing self-control only to look at the scan picture once every other bite, and Castle becomes a panther, in which form Beckett can curl herself between his massive forelegs and paws on one of the many beanbags, with his deep, vibrating, rumbly purr settling about her.  Doing so, she feels safe, and warm, and snuggly.  Perfect.  Cat-like, both of them are lazily relaxed.  Talking isn’t necessary tonight.  They can talk tomorrow.   She feels much better now.  Not nauseous at all.  And Castle’s huge panther is, as ever, astonishingly sexy. 

She uncurls and nips at his coal-black neck. Castle opens a bright blue eye (strangely, his eye colour is just the same in any form), yawns widely, and stretches himself out to full length, extending and then retracting his claws.  She nips him again, playfully, and then bats a paw at him, inviting him to stalk her.

So he does. Around the family room and then right into the bedroom, where she has become Beckett, doesn’t feel nauseous at all, and does feel rather frisky.  She plays with Castle’s ears for a few seconds, then simply says, “Shift, Castle,” and when he does, kisses him in an unmistakably passionate manner and draws him down to the bed.

* * *

She is woken at five a.m. with the need to vomit, which, painfully and angrily, she does. She swills her mouth out, and before another spasm can afflict her, shifts herself to Onyx.

Oh, _thank you_.  Cats – or Onyx-cat – do not feel morning sickness.  She pads back to bed, curls up on the pillow between Castle’s shoulder and neck, and returns to sleep until her alarm goes off, an hour or so later.

The flaw in the system is exposed about three seconds after she shifts back to Beckett, at which point she feels very sick indeed. She controls it until she’s brushed her teeth and hair and done her make up (all her make up is natural products only) and then shifts back into Onyx to consider her wardrobe.   The sick feeling goes away.

Castle burbles sleepily until she jumps on to the bed and pats him, claws just about out. His eyes open, he looks at her, cuddles her cat-form and fondles her ears, and then realises what’s going on.

“Still feeling sick,” he says. Statement of the blindingly obvious there, Castle.  She nuzzles at his chest, then bats at him, turns sinuously and struts back to her wardrobe.  Castle, fortunately, catches on, and as Onyx indicates the clothes she wants lays them out.

“I see,” he says. “Minimum time as Beckett till you have to be.”  He smirks.  “Maybe you should lay out your clothes the night before.”  Onyx’s tail twitches warningly.  “Just saying.”  He suddenly grins.  “Hey, I get to drive!”

Onyx-Beckett turns an offended back on him and washes a paw to indicate her extreme disapproval. When she turns back, Castle’s also laid out some underwear, which, unlike his usual favourites, proves to be soft cotton panties and bra, with absolutely no underwiring.  Good call, Castle.  She shifts back to Beckett, dresses extremely hurriedly, and shifts back to Onyx again before anything unpleasant happens.

Castle has pulled himself together in the interim and she can hear the sounds of shower and shave in the background. He’d better hurry up.  She doesn’t want to be late.  She doesn’t want to tip off the boys that something’s up.  This is _their_ secret.  Hers and Castle’s.  She simply wants to keep it to themselves for a while yet.  She curls around the thought, and purrs happily until Castle emerges, dresses – she watches that from her pillow – and then picks her up, drapes her over his shoulder and chauffeurs her to the precinct, where she nips into a corner of the car park opposite and becomes Beckett.

She takes a moment to consider. Her stomach is… just about bearable.  At least, while she doesn’t feel precisely _good_ , she isn’t going to vomit.  She smiles happily as she comes back to Castle.  She has a workable system.  Cats, it seems, definitely don’t have morning sickness.  Still, she’d better delay breakfast for another little while.  No point testing her stomach to destruction.  She’s so pleased that she ignores her normal rigid rule of no PDA in the precinct, and holds Castle’s hand all the way up in the elevator.

Life, she decides, is very cool for cats.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Two weeks later, they’re back in Dr Maine’s office. She takes Beckett through the intervening period, and then performs another scan.

“There you are,” she says. “Two perfectly healthy heartbeats.  Now, I’ve done a lot of research in the last couple of weeks.”  She smiles, a little sardonically.  “I have to say that if I’d wanted to be a vet I’d have trained to be a vet.”  Beckett raises an eyebrow, and Dr Maine raises one right back.  “On this scan, where you’re human, the foetuses look human, as far as we can tell at this stage, and just fine.  There are no obvious anomalies, which is good.”

Beckett breathes a huge sigh of relief.

“So, I’d like you to shift into a panther again so we can take a look at that. I’m afraid you’re just too small as a cat for me to do anything accurately, and we can hardly take you to a vet.”

“No,” says Beckett, thinking _too freaking right we won’t be going to a vet_.

“If what I suspect is the case is right, when you are a feline your babies should also be feline.” She manoeuvres the wand as Beckett changes.  “Hm, now, look here.  That definitely looks feline.”  Beckett turns her head.  “Good,” Dr Maine says briskly.  “Change back, and clean up.”  There is a brief pause, while Beckett does.  “Okay,” the doctor continues.  “It looks like it’s all matched up.  Whatever state you’re in, the pregnancy pretty much matches up.  I think you’re a week or two ahead of where you technically should be, but I’ve yet to meet a woman who wants pregnancy to be _longer_ , so I’m guessing you’re not worried by that?”

“No,” Beckett says emphatically, and thinks _hell no!_

Dr Maine’s eyes are brightly interested. It’s disturbingly reminiscent of the spectators at the zoo.  “I theorise” –

“Do you?” Castle bounces, “I do too. I love theorising.”

“I theorise,” she continues quellingly, “that the combination of forms, but mostly the fact that it’s twins, will shorten your pregnancy by up to a month. You should take this into account.  However, changing form doesn’t seem to affect anything, so you can keep doing it if you want to.  In fact, I think you should.”

“Why?”

“I think that it will accustom your babies to changing.” She pauses, and looks a touch uncomfortable.  “Um… have you given any thought to the style of birth you wanted to have, all other things being equal?”

“I want pain relief,” Beckett says very forcefully. “Lots and lots and lots of pain relief.”

“Mm,” Dr Maine says. “Before we discuss that, had you thought about the – er – practical issues?”

“Like the reaction of a hospital to delivering kittens?” Beckett says dryly.

“Yes.”

“Yes, we have.”

“And?”

“It’s complicated. We could do human form, and then there’s a risk that the twins shift into kittens – or worse, cubs – in public.  If we go to a vet, there’s the opposite problem.”

“Yes,” Dr Maine says.

Of course they’ve thought about it. They’ve thought about not much else, over the last fortnight.  Does Dr Maine think they’re dumb, or something?  Unfortunately, Beckett’s thoughts are quite clearly written on her face.

“No, I don’t think you’re stupid. But I do find that most normal couples” –

“We’re perfectly normal,” Beckett says crossly. Castle looks entirely unconvinced, which is ridiculous.  Of course they’re normal.  Their definition of normality is just very, very wide.

“Really?” Dr Maine says sardonically. “Shapeshifting is _normal_?”  Beckett colours.  “Anyway, most couples haven’t yet thought about the practicalities.”  She taps her pen.  “Were you considering a home birth?  Because that is absolutely not possible for a human multiple pregnancy.”

“I want pain relief,” Beckett says emphatically. “I don’t see how that’s going to work at home.  You need an anaesthetist for an epidural.”

“Not necessarily, but you do need to be in a hospital unit in case of complications. In any event, I would refuse to treat you if you insisted on a home birth in human form.  Far, far too dangerous.  However, I have a slightly different idea.  Just as you’ve found that being a cat has taken away your morning sickness” –

“If I were to give birth as a cat then it might not be so painful and I might not need relief.”

“Exactly.”

Beckett considers. She turns the idea upside down and inside out, looking at it from all angles.  It may have advantages.

“You have plenty of time to think about it,” Dr Maine says. “For now, everything is fine.  I’d still like to see you every two weeks, though.  I wouldn’t normally, but I think, in the circumstances, we should scan every two weeks.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

* * *

For the next two months, life progresses quite satisfactorily, from Beckett’s viewpoint. She is careful to avoid anything stupid – being desperate to avoid desk duty.  Being Onyx abates the nausea considerably, and Castle’s cossetting is kept to a bearable level.  In fact, though she doesn’t openly admit it, it’s adorable.

They have a collection of scan pictures, too. Two collections.  One which will, when they break the news, be shared.  One which is for them alone.  It would be extraordinarily difficult to explain.  It’s also been extraordinarily difficult to keep Beckett’s pregnancy secret.  Never mind _Castle’s_ normal ability to speak without engaging brain and to babble out every last thought, _Beckett_ wants to tell everyone in sight.  She is absolutely disgusted by her own difficulty in maintaining discretion. 

She is not disgusted by some of the other effects, however. Castle appreciates the small increase in her bra size immensely.  Beckett appreciates his appreciation, likewise immensely.  As the first trimester passes, she’s also frisky – in any form – more often.  In fact, she feels great.  Though she is not doing this again.  Even if she does have a guaranteed cure for the morning sickness, she didn’t like it, she didn’t like the exhaustion, and the practicalities are horrible.  Anyway, two babies is enough.  Especially two at once.  Come to think of it, she’d better get her frisk on while they can.  After the twins arrive, there’s going to be no chance.  Another good reason to stop there.

They wander into the precinct one fine morning, having decided that it’s time to tell people. There is a family dinner scheduled for this evening, Beckett has arranged to meet Lanie for lunch, and at some point they will see the enormous O’Leary for a drink.  (He really ought to be a Kodiak bear.  It’s just plain unfair that he isn’t.) 

Actually, the only reason it’s time to tell people is that Beckett now has a rather discreet bump, and she wants to be ahead of the game. The boys are going to be bad enough without letting them guess.  They’re _pathetic_ when they think they’ve been wronged, or deprived of some gossip. 

The bump is annoying, though. Her balance is just a little different, but more importantly and much worse, none of her previous pants do up any more.  She will have to go shopping, and she _hates_ shopping.  She especially hates shopping in maternity shops.  They’re staffed by bright, perky, and obviously _not_ pregnant women.  She doesn’t like bright or perky at any stage.  Shopping is a form of torture which she avoids at all costs, which is why Castle does it all.  Unfortunately he can’t do it for her when they don’t actually know what size she is, so she’ll have to trail round shops with Castle being enthusiastic until she’ll threaten to shoot him.  She supposes that she could always set him to researching maternity shops that don’t sell flowery tents.  Anyone suggesting that she should wear a flowery tent will find themselves eating it.  There must be a shop out there that sells _stylish_ maternity wear.

“Wow, Beckett, looking a bit grim there,” Ryan greets her.

“Someone annoy you already?” Espo grins, looking pointedly at Castle.

“Not yet,” Beckett says, glaring at Espo, “but you two might manage it.” She makes a determined effort.  Now it’s got to the point, she doesn’t know where to start.  She wanders to the break room.  Everyone trails after her, for no apparent reason.

“I’m pregnant,” she announces baldly.

Ryan chokes. Espo gasps.

“You?” they gulp.

“No, my non-existent twin sister who isn’t even here. Yes, me.”

“ _You_?” they say again. 

What is their problem? Surely it can’t be that difficult to understand?  She tries speaking very slowly, to get through to the hard of thinking.

“I am having a baby. Well, twins, actually.”

This does not appear to help. She hadn’t thought that they were this dumb.  She looks at Castle, and wishes that she could – they could – simply shift into panthers and bite them.  One each, for maximum effect.  Hard.

“When?” Ryan eventually manages.

“May.”

“An’ you’ve been working like normal?” Espo emits, going somewhat purple in the face.  “Gates know?”

“Yes. And she didn’t put me on desk duty so you can stop that thought right there.”  Espo looks studiedly innocent.  “Quit that.”

“Congratulations,” Ryan manages, echoed by Esposito. “Er – twins?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

“Now, can we get to work?”

“Okay.”

That went well. She’s squashed the incipient protectionist tendencies, so it’ll all be just fine.  Castle toddles off home after a few moments, promising her favourite chicken pasta dish for dinner, and everyone gets on with life as normal.  Perfect.  She’d been worrying about their reactions completely unnecessarily.  She should have trusted their good sense.

Her good humour lasts just as long as it takes for her to go to the break room, to where Espo follows her.

“You shouldn’t be having coffee, Beckett. Not good for the babies.”

“Are you an obstetrician, Espo?” she asks coldly.

“Naw, but everyone knows that.”

“My ob-gyn said I could have one cup of coffee a day. Which,” she says icily, “is why _this_ is camomile tea.”  Espo has the grace to blush.  “Now get your butt out my business.”  She scowls, and Espo scarpers at some speed.   Just as well, because she can feel a rising urge to change into her panther.  Taking a good big bite out of Espo’s interfering butt would be extremely satisfying.

She makes it to lunchtime without shooting anyone, and puts her coat on to go and meet Lanie. As she does so, she notices Ryan watching her beadily.

“Where’re you going, Beckett?” he says, rather too interrogatively for her liking. It tweaks her temper, which to be fair is not terribly difficult.  She is not keen on being _checked up on_ , and Castle’s over-protectiveness, while normally adorable, has caused more than a few – hormone-driven, naturally – arguments.

“None of your business,” she snips.

“’Tis so our business. You’re not to go out on the job without one of us.”

“Says freaking _who_?”

“Us,” Espo puts in. “You do any damn stupid thing that enters your head.”

Beckett is so incensed that her fingers curl into fists. “I do not,” she hisses. “And it’s not for you to tell me what I can do.  That’s Gates’ job.  Now _get out of my way_.”

They move. Fast.  Beckett’s glare at them would have melted granite, but it’s the fact that her hand is on her Glock’s holster that really frightens them. 

She’s still furiously fulminating as she hits the café in which she’s meeting Lanie. The server takes one look and rapidly ushers her to a table, before anything unfortunate such as spontaneous human combustion can occur.  Very bad for business, that.

“Hey, Kate.”

“Hey,” she replies happily. Finally.  Someone sensible – that is, _female_ – who will not fuss and fret and try to be overprotective.  Maybe Lanie’ll help her murder the boys and hide the bodies, which on their present performance will be round about tomorrow.

Orders are given and the server despatched.

“So, what’s new, girl?”

“Got some news for you.”

“Yes?” Lanie says, far too suspiciously for Beckett’s liking. “Am I gonna like it?”

“Yes. Um – I’m pregnant.”

Lanie squeals at full pitch and ear-shattering volume. “Congratulations, girlfriend,” she whoops.  “I’m gonna be an auntie!  Oh, I’m gonna spoil this baby till it doesn’t know which way is up.  We gotta go shopping!”

“It’s twins,” Beckett inserts when Lanie pauses for breath. This is not quite the reaction she’d expected.  Happiness, sure – but not enthusiasm only appropriate to a toddler spotting birthday cake, or possibly and blasphemously, the church’s reaction to the Second Coming.

“Twins!” Lanie screeches even more happily. “ _Twins_?  We have got to _celebrate!_ ”  Her face falls.  “You can’t drink.”  It cheers up again.  “You can eat desserts, though.  We’ll have desserts.  Lots of desserts.  We’ll go shopping at the weekend.  You’ll need lots of things.  Clothes.  Baby things.  Bottles.  Sterilisers.”

Lanie goes on, and on, and on, and on. If Beckett didn’t know better (or at least hope better) she’d think that Lanie’d been planning for babies practically her whole life. _Beckett’s_ life, that would be.  She’d hoped for a sensible conversation: say one that included current affairs, or movies, or work.  Instead, Lanie seems to be organising her whole post-baby life.  Beckett does not like this.  Lanie is her best friend, but she wants to do the baby stuff with _Castle_ , not Lanie. 

“Stop,” she says.

Lanie doesn’t. She appears to be discussing with herself the benefits of triangular cushions. 

“Stop!”

Now it’s how Beckett should prevent stretch marks and do her Kegel exercises, which is not a conversation she wishes to have over a meal, or indeed ever. Besides which, Castle has bought her some excellent anti-stretch mark cream, although its main value is the pleasure she gets from him massaging it gently in – and his actions after he’s massaged it gently in.  Lanie is still burbling.

“ _Stop!_ ” she yells.  Lanie stops, and looks hurt.

“But girlfriend…”

“Lanie, all that stuff is what Castle – you know, their _father_ , my husband – and I wanna do.  Together.”

Lanie droops. “No shopping?” she says.

“A very little shopping,” Beckett concedes. Lanie brightens up again.  “One afternoon.  Honestly, if I’d known you’d turn into Martha Stewart, I’d have told you on the phone.”

“I’m just excited,” Lanie says.

 _You don’t say, Lanie_ , Beckett thinks with extreme sarcasm. 

“Are you eating properly? You live on takeout.”

“Not since we got married,” Beckett says, which is entirely lost in a whole new world of Lanie-induced pain. Is she doing exercise?  Is she taking her vitamins?  Did she remember not to spar?  Is Castle taking care of her?  Why isn’t he wrapping her in cotton wool?  Why is she out alone?

Because she’s thirty-three, not freaking _three_.

“ _Stop_!” Beckett wails.  “I’ve _got_ an ob-gyn.  I just want a pal.”  Mentally, she’s adding Lanie to her list of corpses that will need to be disposed of before the end of the week.  If she’d ever thought that Lanie would be this over-the-top she’d never have mentioned it.  She’d have invented a beer gut before admitting it was a baby bump.

“When are you due?”

Oh God. This is not going to go down well.

“End of May, most likely.”

Lanie counts on her fingers. Beckett has a feeling of impending dread.  “You’re nearly _five months along_ and you’re only just telling me?”

“We wanted to make sure everything was okay before we told anyone. ‘Cause it’s twins, it’s higher risk.”  Fortunately that complete lack of truth passes muster.

“But I get to be Auntie Lanie, don’t I?”

Dear God, Lanie sounds like a kid begging for candy. What has _happened_ to her sensible, sassy friend?

“Sure you do.”

Finally the Lanie-juggernaut shuts up. Beckett finishes her lunch, and goes back to the bullpen, where she can – compared to Lanie – _almost_ regard Esposito and Ryan with equanimity.  They, on the other hand, regard her with outright terror, and don’t make a single suggestion that might indicate that she is in any way to be treated or to act differently from her pre-pregnancy self.

When she gets home, Castle is happily stretched out on a floor cushion, idly extending his claws and flirting his tail. She takes off her shoes, gun and shield, and joins him, cuddling in between his forepaws without bothering to become Onyx.  He bats at her gently, and she strokes him, loving the feeling of the velvet pelt under her fingers.  Her mischievous hands work their way up to his ears, where they should produce exactly the effect she would like. 

They don’t. Beckett pouts, and then turns into her panther and nips his neck.  That doesn’t work, either.  She turns back into Beckett, and humphs loudly.  She also stops petting.  Castle stretches, and shifts back.

“I was enjoying that,” he says hopefully.

“ _I_ was thinking we might enjoy something else,” Beckett entices.

“We might’ve, but everyone’s going to turn up in half an hour and I don’t wanna rush,” he smiles lazily. “Once they’ve all gone, though….”  Okay.  That sounds good.  She doesn’t want to rush either.  But after dinner, she’ll make him pay for making her wait.   It would have been nicer to go out to Central Park and play chase, when she’d really make him work for it, but it’s snowy and that makes her paws cold, and coal black fur shows up rather obviously on white snow.

She smiles back at him. “I guess we’d better get everything ready, then.”  She sighs.  “Surely this can’t be as bad as the rest of the day?”

“Bad? What happened?” Castle asks, instantly worried.  “Did you get hurt?  You said you wouldn’t take any chances.  What went wrong?”

“Castle! I didn’t take any chances.  No-one got hurt – but if the boys and Lanie carry on like they did today they’ll not be _hurt_ , they’ll be _dead_.  And they’ll deserve it.”

“Uh?”

“Espo tried to tell me I shouldn’t drink coffee. I wasn’t even _making_ coffee.  Ryan told me I couldn’t go out on my own.  I was going to meet _Lanie_.  And then Lanie went on and on and on and wanted me to go _shopping_ ” –

“Tragedy!” Castle puts in, and sniggers.

“Shopping for absolutely everything the babies would ever need” –

“Oh.”

“I told her I was doing that with you,”

“Oh,” says Castle much more happily.

Silly, adorable man. How could he think she’d want to do it without him? 

“Anyway then she went on and on and on about other things and she’s completely _insane_.  I thought she had a brain but the minute I mentioned _baby_ she went totally totty-headed” –

“What? What’s totty-headed, and why have I never heard it before?”

“You don’t read enough,” Beckett flips at him, and smirks while retreating at a rapid rate of knots and then turning into Onyx when he grabs for her so that he misses. Castle growls.

Fortunately at that point the door sounds. No-one, no matter how close their families are, has a key, now that they’ve all moved out.  The risk of discovery is far, far too high.  The risk of serious embarrassment is rather higher than that.

“Hey, Dad,” Beckett says, and hugs him.

“Hi.” He wrinkles his nose.  “That smells good.  What is it?”

“Chicken carbonara with pasta,” Castle explains. “Salad and garlic bread.  Ice-cream for dessert.”

“Sounds good.”

The door sounds again, and Beckett lets in Martha and, only a moment behind, Alexis.

“Well, darlings, isn’t this lovely? Family dinner.  What’s the occasion?” Martha carols happily.

“Why don’t you let Dad tell us, Grams, rather than spoiling their fun by guessing?”

Beckett breathes a silent sigh of relief. She really does not want Martha to steal their thunder.  She’d be really sorry, afterwards, but that wouldn’t make up for it this time.  She can see Castle thinking the same thing.

“Dinner’s ready. Let’s all sit down.”

Castle dishes up, and everybody starts. The air of expectation is practically stifling.

“We’re going to have a baby,” Castle announces. “Well, two babies.”

“Congratulations, Dad!” Alexis says first.

“Wonderful news, darlings,” Martha pronounces. “About time, too.” 

Beckett manages – just – not to glare.

“Congratulations,” Jim says, very sincerely.

Then the second sentence dawns on everyone. “ _Twins?_ ” they all screech in chorus.

“Twins,” Beckett says very definitively.

“Wow,” Jim says. “I don’t think we’ve ever had twins in the family before.”

“Just good luck, I guess,” Castle says smoothly.

“You won’t be saying that when you get two Katies,” Jim snickers. Beckett gives up self-control and glares viciously at him.

“Do you know what you’re having?” Alexis asks.

“Right now?” she says, unable to stop herself. “Kittens.”

“Oh, darling,” Martha says sympathetically, “of course you’re nervous, but it will all be wonderful when they’re here.”

It is perhaps entirely fortunate that Castle has taken the empty plates to the kitchen, since the shaking of his shoulders would lead to some very unfortunate questions.

“I’m sure it will be.”

“And we’ll all be here to help,” Martha continues.

“That’s very sweet of you all,” Beckett says, thinking _hell no. You’ll see the kittens and freak out_.

“Of course, you’ll have to rehome Onyx.”

“ _What_?” Castle and Beckett say in unison.  “No way.”

“But darlings, cats and babies don’t mix.”

A thought that might have been _you have no idea how well they mix_ passes from blue eyes to hazel.

“We won’t be rehoming Onyx,” Castle says firmly.

“Where is she?” Alexis asks.

“She went out,” Castle replies. “She goes on the prowl in the evening.  She’s not really a very sociable cat.”

Beckett will wreak considerable revenge for that comment later, she decides. From Castle’s sudden look of terror, he’s realised it.  From his following sleepy-eyed look, he’s remembered that as a panther he’s got the upper paw, whatever form Beckett takes.  A swift sizzle scorches between them.

Luckily, dinner does not produce any more unfortunate statements, which is just as well, since Castle is having considerable difficulty controlling his laughter. Everyone assumes – well, everyone except Beckett – that the crinkles round his eyes are delight at his news.  Dinner, therefore, is completed without a hitch.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Coffee over, everyone dispersed, the cleaning up done, Castle captures Beckett against the counter and smoulders at her. She raises sleepy, sexy eyes to him.

“ _Kittens_?” he says.

“I got away with it.”

“Only because I was out of the way. I nearly exploded.”

“Did you?” she says, sultry tones sliding over him. “That would have been a shame.  You wouldn’t want to shoot too soon.”

“No chance of that,” Castle says suavely, bends to kiss her – and finds that Onyx is at his feet, flicking her tail at him mischievously. She winds through his legs, avoids his clutch, and struts away confidently.  She knows he’ll chase her.  She also knows he’ll catch her, but he’ll have to make an effort.  She slithers under the table.  A huge paw appears in her field of vision, followed by a head.  He coughs, amused at her hiding.  She pats at the paw, whips out from the table and scampers away.  They both love the chase. 

Castle pads into the centre of the room, and she can see him peering around. She nips his tail, and mews derisively at his offended flick.  One large paw comes round and only just misses her as she scrambles out the way, diving for the safety of the cushions – and missing.  Castle’s guessed her move and catches her: pinning her down and then very carefully stretching jaws over her neck and nipping softly.  She purrs, and gives in, wholly feline and totally turned on.

They switch back in sync, Beckett ending up draped across a cushion with Castle looking hotly down at her. She reaches up and pulls him down aggressively.

Some time later, they reach the bedroom. They’ll clear the clothes up tomorrow.

* * *

Another month goes by. Beckett’s bump grows bigger, which means another trip to the torture chamber of the maternity shops.  Castle, helpfully, has found one which does not sell tents.  Ryan and Esposito have been firmly cowed, and are regarding Beckett’s ever-expanding stomach as if it were an armed grenade.  Of course, they’re regarding _her_ as if she’s a primed bomb, which is equal parts satisfying and annoying.  She achieves some amusement from occasionally wincing or taking a deep breath, but it’s too easy to spook them, and that’s no fun.  Also, Gates has a nasty habit of appearing just as she thinks about it, and she’ll do almost anything not to be restricted in her duties beyond those limits she puts on herself.

The babies move, too. The first time it happened, Castle nearly fell out of the bed with excitement, and spent the rest of the night with his head on her stomach to see if it would happen again.  It did _nothing_ for her digestion, or the quality of her sleep.  After that she told him very firmly that he could leave his hand there (or thereabouts) but if she found his head there waking her up in the night he would rapidly be _minus_ said head.  The wriggles are weird.  Reassuring, but weird.

Dr Maine is happy, which is also reassuring. The scans are normal, if you ignore the peculiarity that the second one is for a panther; and everything else is progressing well.  They’ve decorated the nursery: not without a considerable amount of argument over colours, cots, rocking chairs, cushions and the like.  There are a lot of stencils of cats of all shapes and sizes, though she’d talked Castle out of the sabre-toothed tiger by pointing out that _he’d_ be dealing with any resulting nightmares.  The cats are, therefore, friendly-faced.  Totally unrealistic, of course, but Beckett reckons that the real world will happen to her children soon enough, and doesn’t spoil Castle’s happy cat-stencilling.

It’s all going surprisingly well. It might not have been the right time, or the plan, but she’s pretty much adjusted to it.  She is still very, very concerned about how they’re going to handle the reality of shapeshifting babies (or kittens, or cubs) without the news getting out, but some of Castle’s serene confidence has rubbed off on her.  It’s really quite worrying that her normal pessimism and sardonic attitude has disappeared.  It’s not her.  She really hopes she’ll be back to Beckett-normal once these babies arrive.  But for now, it’s all going just fine.

It’s all going just fine till she goes to the restroom and there’s a tracing of blood on her underwear.

She doesn’t panic. She is trained not to panic.  She rings Dr Maine, who tells her very calmly to go to the Bellevue ER right away and she will be there to meet her.  She doesn’t panic.  She taps on Gates’s office door, bears the chilly glare, explains – and watches the glare turn to an astonishing look of concern.  She didn’t know Gates could _do_ concern.  You live and learn.  And she still doesn’t panic.  Gates drives her to the ER, while Beckett phones Castle.  She doesn’t panic.  She is very calm as she explains.  Castle is not calm.  Castle is, in fact, panicking.  She manages to make him understand where to meet her, repeats for the fourth – or possibly four thousandth – time that she hadn’t _done_ anything or even been out of the bullpen today, not that he’s taking that in; and cuts the call.  Gates, who has removed the stick from her ass (Beckett had thought it was surgically implanted, but the chips are down and Gates has stepped up) and ignored all rules to use lights and sirens with complete freedom, has reached the Bellevue ER in a time Beckett wouldn’t have believed.

Dr Maine is there. And Beckett, who hasn’t panicked this whole time, falls apart all over her motherly figure, watched by Captain Gates, who awkwardly manages a few pats of her crying Detective.

Dr Maine arranges for admission, explains that she’s Beckett’s obstetrician, orders Gates to wait and tell Castle where to find them as soon as he gets there – and if it weren’t for her complete emotional collapse, Beckett would have mightily appreciated seeing Gates treated like a slightly slow child and given firm orders – and takes Beckett in for examination.

“Okay, Kate,” she says reassuringly. “This is common.  If it was serious, there’d be a lot more blood.  Do you feel any cramps?”  Beckett shakes her head.  “Good.  Let me do an exam, get a couple of foetal heart monitors on you, and tell you what’s going on.  We’ll do an ultrasound as soon as Rick gets here.”

A few minutes, she comes back to Beckett’s head. “You’ve stopped bleeding, and there is only a tiny amount.  That’s really good.  The babies are fine: I can hear both heartbeats loud and clear, and the trace is regular: no sign of distress.  Do you want to hear?”

“Yes.” She does.  She’s dealt with big hairy uglies, with big ugly knives.  She’s faced guns.  She’s been shot – and in no case at all has she ever been as terrified as in the last two hours.  Never, ever, _ever_.  As she hears the twin thumps of the hearts, and looks at the trace, she relaxes.  Very marginally, but relaxes.  It’s just as well.  Two seconds later there’s a hubbub outside and Castle barrels in, frantic.

“Beckett! Beckett!  Are you okay?”

“Yes. I didn’t _do_ anything, Castle.  I didn’t!  I didn’t go out the bullpen all day.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, sweetheart.  I know you haven’t done anything.  Don’t cry.”  He cuddles her very carefully and very protectively, and looks frantically at Dr Maine.

“The babies’ heartbeats are fine, but we’ll do an ultrasound so you can both see. Kate’ll need to stay in at least overnight, though, just to make sure everything is okay with her.”

“I’ll get a private room.” Beckett makes a small noise.  “No argument.  Private room.  Everything.  I’m not leaving you till you’re discharged.”  Now he’s sure she’s okay, Beckett watches Castle issue orders about what he wants for her with amazing relief.  She’s absolutely wrung out.  She’s never been so scared in her whole entire life.  She clings to Castle’s hand. 

“’S okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”  She wants nothing more than to turn into Onyx and be cuddled and petted and to fit against Castle’s shoulder and never come out of his arms.  Except she can’t.  She’s in the freaking _hospital_ and she can’t shift and it’s not _fair_.  She starts to sniffle again.  She’d feel safe if she could be Onyx and all cuddled up to Castle.

Shortly, an ultrasound machine is transported into her room, and Dr Maine stays with her while the hospital tech works the magic.

“There you are,” Dr Maine says. “Both of them just fine.”  She gives them both a sympathetic look.  “We could take a closer peek and see what sex they are, if you wanted?”

They’d talked about this, and hadn’t come to a decision. Beckett, normally the biggest control freak on the planet, had been no different now, and wanted to know.  Castle, who loves surprises, wanted to be surprised.  On the other hand, Castle is possibly also the most curious man on the planet.  It had been really funny to watch his two driving instincts conflict.

But right now, both of them are very white and very shaken and very, very scared.

“I wanna know,” Beckett sniffles. “I need to know they’re okay.”  Castle’s hand tightens round hers.

“Me too, sweetheart.” He turns to the tech and Dr Maine.  “Can you see, please?”

The tech and doctor wave the wand about in a seemingly random manner. Beckett’s tummy is cold with the gel and the exposure, which isn’t helping her feel any better.  She hadn’t _done_ anything.  She’d left all the being first through the door and first to face the bad guys to the others.  She’d not sparred or drilled or even done any speed work with the bag.  She’d even worn _flat shoes_ , for goodness’ sake.  She’d done everything _right_ , and this is _not fair_. 

“Hm… mmm… stop that, you,” the tech says to the wriggles on the screen. “Thank you.  That’s better.”

“It’s a bit difficult to see,” Dr Maine says, “Though from the amount of movement, you have two wannabe acrobats.” Beckett manages a scared smile.  “One is definitely a boy.  He’s showing it off.”

“Clearly your child,” Beckett murmurs.

Castle snorts. “Didn’t notice you complaining,” he whispers and then reverts to nervousness. 

“There’s a high probability the other is a girl, but she’s a bit shyer. One of each, is my best guess.”

“Wow,” they say in unison. Beckett starts to cry again.  She hates crying, but she’s been up and down the emotional rollercoaster for two hours now and it’s taken a toll.  Castle’s eyes are very suspiciously damp too.

“Okay. Time to get you into a room and comfortable overnight.”  Dr Maine regards them wisely.  “I’ll talk you through everything else” – she drops one eyelid – “there.”

Shortly Beckett is ensconced in a plush private room on which Castle has obviously splashed out a fortune. It would be quite delightful – if it weren’t a hospital room and she wasn’t still so terrified.  Even hearing the heartbeat and seeing the scan hasn’t really settled her, having the monitors still hooked up and staying there for the duration is frightening, and all she wants is Castle to surround her and cuddle her and make it all okay again.

“You said that you’d just had a normal day at work, and that, unusually, there had been no reason to go out,” Dr Maine reminds her. Beckett nods.  “You’ve been sensible about everything.  You need to understand that this is absolutely not your fault.  You haven’t done anything wrong at all.  But for the next couple of weeks, you’ll need to be careful.  The rest of the week off, and then – I know you don’t want to – you’ll need to stick to desk duty from now on until I clear you or you give birth.  Don’t do anything strenuous.  No carrying heavy objects” –

“No-one lets me carry anything heavier than my gun anyway,” Beckett mutters –

“No stretching. And” – Beckett has a sudden premonition, and blushes – “no penetrative sex.”  Dr Maine coughs.  “No other sex for the next week, and then I’ll examine you again.”

Beckett is too tired, scared and miserable for that to register as the horrifying restriction that it would normally be. Castle, still white, looks as if he’d rather cut it off himself than do anything risky.

She beckons Dr Maine closer. “What about shifting?” she whispers.

“Don’t do that either. I think you’d better stay in one form for a while, and this is it.”

Beckett breaks down again. She’d wanted to be Onyx, where she always feels safe.  Castle puts an arm around her, and squeezes gently. 

“We’ll be okay. I’ve got you, and this is just a very scary blip.  We’ve got two healthy babies, and it’ll be okay.”

“Stay here tonight, I’ll examine you again tomorrow, and all being well you can go home then.” She pats Beckett’s shoulder.  “You’ll be fine.  Try to sleep, Kate.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”  Dr Maine leaves, shutting the door behind her.

Castle does the best thing he could possibly have done, in Beckett’s miserable opinion: he doesn’t try to talk but simply holds her into an all-enveloping embrace and strokes up and down her back while she sniffles, placing butterfly kisses on her hair. He’s the only thing she wants or needs right now.

“Don’t go away,” she snuffles into his chest, in a very un-Beckett-like display of neediness.

“I won’t,” Castle promises. “I’ve made sure of it.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been so upset you’ve lost all your detecting skills,” he says, just a tiny bit provocatively. She cheers up slightly.  If Castle can be even a little bit provocative, then there can’t be too much wrong.  She still wants to be Onyx, though, and now she can’t be.

“Huh?” she emits again.

“Big bed, Beckett. I’m going to slide in beside you – there’s just room – and then I’ll be next to you all night.  No way am I leaving you alone.”

“What time’s it?”

“Almost nine. Lie back now.”  He lowers her down carefully, and sits by her, watching, staying just as he’d promised.  She watches, insensibly reassured by the small movements of the babies within her, until without her permission her eyelids droop and close.  She wakes briefly in the night to find Castle’s arm over her, keeping her grounded, and then doesn’t move at all until it’s morning.

At that point, she also realises that she has no clean clothes. She thinks that this is totally, ridiculously trivial compared to yesterday and the other worries, but it’s under her control and nothing else is right now.  Castle opens a sleepy blue eye as she turns over, and then springs into wakefulness.

“You okay,” he says?

“Yeah.” She needs to go to the bathroom.  Fortunately there is an en suite.  As soon as she looks like sitting up, Castle is in front of her helping her to sit, and then stand.  This is very nice.  Once.  If he tries it every time, it might not be so nice.  He walks her to the bathroom.  “Castle?”

“Yes?”

“Please would you go home and get me some clean clothes? I really want some.”  And she does want to use the bathroom in privacy.  Castle is sticking to her like bubble gum, and she doesn’t want to hurt his feelings because he’s as raw as she is, but some things a girl just wants to do on her own.

“Promise you won’t overdo it?”

She looks at him, utterly aghast. “You think I’d – after yesterday?”

“No! I don’t mean that, honestly.”  Castle starts to talk faster.  “I don’t mean you’d do anything silly.  I just don’t want you to hurt yourself or be too tired or anything.”  She just looks at him.  “I won’t be here to help.  Please, Beckett, don’t try and have a shower or anything till I’m back or we’re back home.”  He’s just about talked his way out of trouble, there.   He’s just concerned.  He’s not blaming her or accusing her.  He’s as worried as she is, and he’s only asking out of terror.  She stands her anger down.

“You just want to see me in the shower,” she snarks, and gets a sleepy smile in response.

“If it’s all I can do, I’ll take it,” he oozes. “I’ll go get you some clothes.”  He kisses her softly, and departs.

Beckett makes herself more comfortable, hopes that this isn’t the start of needing a restroom more and more frequently – it would be exceedingly embarrassing to be waddling out of interrogations every few moments: it would ruin the – er – flow, so to speak. Oh God.  That’s almost as awful as Castle might come up with.  She sits in bed, which at least keeps her toes warm, and plays with her phone.  She has nothing else to do.

Oh. Ah.  There is something else she should do.  She just really, really does not want to do it.  She needs to call Gates.  Most unfairly, her phone is fully charged, so she can’t even come up with a credible excuse.  It’s eight a.m., so Gates will be in.  Ugh.  She takes a deep breath, and dials.

“Captain Gates, good morning,” Gates says formally, obviously not recognising Beckett’s number. This is not a surprise, since Beckett rarely calls Gates.  It’s not good for either of them.  Reports in person are much better.

“Sir.”

“Detective Beckett! Is everything all right?”  Good grief.  Beckett hadn’t been imagining things yesterday.  Gates is really, truly, concerned.  There is the noise of her office door closing.

“I think so.”

“Good. You must be very relieved.”

“Yessir.” That’s always a safe answer.

“I’m sure you appreciate that you will now be on desk duty only,” Gates says dryly.

“Yessir.”

“And that I will be ordering you to have the rest of the week off, after which I will review the position.”

“Yessir.”

“And that, much as I dislike the idea, from now on if you are in the precinct then Mr Castle will be there too.”

“Yessir – what?”

“If you are there, Mr Castle will be there. No argument.  If he is not, I will send you home.”

Beckett gibbers at the phone.

“Those are my _orders_ , Detective.  Obey.”

Gates cuts the call on her before Beckett can, which is _infuriating_.

Castle walks back in to find Beckett scowling into thin air. “I brought your clothes,” he says placatingly.

“ _Gates_ is being over-protective. _Gates_!”

He drops the garment bag. “Uh?”

“I expected desk duty. I expected enforced leave until next week.  But she’s said if you’re not in the station with me she’ll send me home!”

“Don’t you want me there?” Castle whines, and widens his big blue eyes pathetically at her.

“Sure I do, but that’s not the _point_.  The only person allowed to be that overprotective is _you_.  They’re all going to turn me into a cotton-wool wrapped snow-Beckett and I’ll go crazy in a week.  And stop _sniggering_.”

“I can’t imagine you as a snow-Beckett,” Castle notes. “But I can imagine you as an in-the-shower Beckett, so why don’t you do that, and at least you can put on clean panties till Dr Maine clears you to go home.

Dr Maine arrives very shortly after Beckett exits the shower, which is good. She suspects that Castle had called her, which is smart of him, since if she has to sit here for any longer with nothing to do her own fretfulness will drive her crazy.  Unlike Castle, she can’t occupy herself with her phone for hours.

Dr Maine is brisk, efficient and just sympathetic enough to Beckett’s fretfulness that no-one loses their temper or bursts into tears.

“Okay, Kate, I’ll discharge you. Go right home, rest for the next couple of days, and I’ll see you next Wednesday.”  She drops her voice.  “And absolutely no shifting.”

Beckett looks sullen, but nods compliantly.

“Let’s get out of here,” Castle suggests.

“Hell, yeah.” She remembers her manners.  “Thanks, Alison.”

“You’re welcome. Now, scoot!”

At home, Castle installs her on the couch, insists she has luxuriously smooth hot chocolate, makes it, and then spends the rest of the day barely an inch from her except when cooking or she’s in the bathroom. Cute as it is, by mid-evening Beckett is feeling slightly smothered. 

“I want you to shift,” she says.

“But you can’t.”

“I know. But you’re big and cuddly and strokable and I want you to,” she says, rather childishly, and pouts.  If he shifts, he can’t be quite so overprotective, and she could lie down on the cushions next to him, snuggle into his fur, and it would be nearly as good as being Onyx.  He does, and so she does.

The next thing she knows, it’s morning, and she is tucked up in bed with Castle beside her. She has no idea how that happened.

Nor does she understand it that night, or the next night, or any of the following nights. She’s sure that the thought that Castle’s doping her hot chocolate is utterly paranoid, and besides which, though he might dope her if he thought it necessary, he’d never dope the babies.

At least, not while they’re in utero. She’s heard about non-sleeping babies, and she’s dismally sure that she will get two of them.  Genetically, given Castle’s nocturnal writing and her ability to survive on three hours a night when a case is hot, she hasn’t a hope in hell of escaping.  Babies, she decides, are not well designed.  A well-designed baby would be one that slept.

Then she remembers that cats are pretty nocturnal too, and gives up any thought of ever sleeping again.

 


	6. Chapter 6

After two days of desk duty, Beckett is ready to spit feathers. Or furballs, though that might raise difficult questions about her diet. Even Dr Maine’s reassurance that the babies are fine doesn’t reduce her boredom-fuelled hair-trigger temper.  No-one will allow her to work on anything that is not at least a year cold.  After a week, there is an informal six-foot exclusion zone around her desk that only Castle and Gates dare to breach without good reason.  After two weeks, even Gates communicates with her exclusively by phone and e-mail, although Beckett has maintained perfect formality and respect for Gates’ rank.  Castle remains entirely unscathed, much to everyone’s amazement except Beckett’s.

A week after that, Castle goes in to see Gates as soon as they arrive, and spends quite a long time in her office, returning to his chair still alive, much to Beckett’s astonishment. Even more to her astonishment, Gates then summons her into her office.  Beckett goes very reluctantly, expecting trouble.  She’d almost welcome a row, except she rather likes her job when she’s not on desk duty and she’d prefer to keep it.

“You’re bored, Detective Beckett.”

“Um…” Admitting boredom is not a career enhancing move, as if pregnancy wasn’t temporarily limiting enough.

“You don’t have to answer. I don’t like lies.”  Gates regards her with a cool, formal stare.  Beckett stares right back, spoilt when one twin kicks her and she gasps.  “Rather than wasting your talents” – there’s an acid twist on that – “for the next three months, I have a proposal for you.”

“What has Castle done?” Beckett asks suspiciously.

“Since Mr Castle appears to be the only reason you have not exploded in the last three weeks, I would be a little less suspicious and a little more appreciative of his efforts, if I were you.” That’s very unfair.  Beckett has been enormously appreciative of Castle’s efforts, though her appreciation has been unable to be expressed in anything other than words, since Dr Maine hasn’t cleared it.  This lack has also not improved her irritation levels.  “Mr Castle, who despite all appearances is an observant man, has observed that I have been extremely busy.   This is unlikely to change.  I require an assistant.”

Beckett’s jaw hits her protruding stomach, which is all that stops it hitting the floor. “An assistant, sir?”

“Yes, Detective Beckett. Do not regard this as an easy option.”

She doesn’t. She and Gates are not precisely soulmates.

“Nor is it a demotion. You will be gaining valuable experience of a far more senior rank, to which you may eventually aspire.”  Gates’ tone does not exactly exude confidence that her aspiration (what aspiration?) will bring success.  “You have considerable organisational and team-managing talents, and your record – despite your unorthodox methods and those of your extremely unorthodox team – is such that you will be given the benefit of the doubt by the personnel of this precinct.”

Beckett simply gapes.

“You will not be given the benefit of any doubt by me, however. You will not be cut any slack for any reason except medical.  I am only taking this option because I have no other.”

Well, that sounds like Gates-normal. On the other hand, Beckett would currently chew her own arm off in order to have something more to do than polish her desk and try to determine whether her inflated stomach has expanded even further.

“Yessir. When do I start, sir?”

“Right now. Take that pile of files, and assess each for whether they should be progressed or marked as cold, giving reasons in each case.  A senior officer must know how best to deploy resources.  I expect your report on the first five by end of shift tomorrow, at which time I shall critique your efforts.”

“Yessir.”

Beckett takes the files and almost bounces out of Gates’ office. This produces an odd diffraction effect across her stomach, but her happy smile conceals everything else.  Finally, something to _do_.  Pregnancy does not mean that her brain has shut down, and she’s been utterly bored for the last three weeks.  She places the files on her desk and gets going.

“Beckett, Beckett! It’s an hour after shift end.  Time to go home.”

Uh? What?  But she’s _busy_.  This is _interesting_.  Why’s Castle trying to stop her?  Oh.  Oh yes.  She’s pregnant.  She’s not supposed to do much (or any) overtime.  Extremely reluctantly, she puts the third file down.

“Come on. You can start again tomorrow.”  Castle, Beckett notes, is looking horribly smug and self-satisfied.  Okay, so he’s had a really good idea, and talked Gates into it, which is devotion above and beyond the call of duty and indeed, given Gates’ normal view of Castle, possibly beyond the call of life.

She packs up her desk and carefully puts the files and notes away. It’s been, amazingly, a really, really, good day.

At the end of the next day she is not so sure. Isn’t grilling pregnant women forbidden under some international convention or other?  If not, it should be.  The Geneva Convention should definitely apply.  Gates picks up on _everything_ , with an intimidating aspect of _how could you not think of that: are you totally incompetent?_ By the end, Beckett is seriously contemplating shooting her and blaming it on an excess of pregnancy hormones, although that idea’s got stiff competition from bursting into tears and running for the door, also to be blamed on an excess of pregnancy hormones.

Finally Gates looks up. “I am impressed, Detective Beckett.”  Say _what_?  She’s just finished putting Beckett through a meat grinder.  “Of course, you have a great deal to learn.  These are very far from perfect, and I shall expect much better from the next five.  However, you have in each case arrived at the correct conclusion for the correct reasons.  You will need to work on your justifications.  Merely because Mr Castle operates on gut instinct does not mean that you may do the same.”  Ow.  That’s deeply unfair.  “Logic must be your guiding principle.  All in all, though, this was an impressive first effort.”

* * *

Two months later, Beckett is hot, bothered and very cross. Her feet are swollen, and she used to have beautiful, elegant feet in beautiful, elegant high-heeled shoes.  At least, she thinks she did.  She hasn’t been able to see her feet for three weeks, which is possibly just as well since they’re so ugly she’d chop them off if she could reach over her even more swollen stomach.  Castle had painted her toenails for her, to try and make her happier, but since she can’t see the cheerful red she’d chosen it didn’t help.  Everyone else can, though, since the only shoes she can get on her fat feet are flip-flops.  She doesn’t like flip-flops.  They flap.  Flip-floppily.

It’s too hot. She can’t take off any more clothes without being arrested for indecency and/or giving the bullpen one hell of a show.  No-one else seems to think it’s too hot, but she is.  She’s sure her mascara is melting.  And she’s wearing a shirt that might as well be a tent, suitably sized for occupation by two full-grown elephants.  At least it isn’t flowery.  Courtesy of two small cotton wool squares, provided by the nearest Walgreens under pretence of being a wound dressing, the shirt also isn’t decorated with two damp patches.

Late pregnancy is not dignified. She waddles, and she hates it.  Worse, she can only waddle slowly.  She’s the size of a blue whale, or possibly two, and she moves more slowly than a tectonic plate.  She feels nearly as heavy as a tectonic plate, too.  She needs to visit the restroom every fifteen minutes (she timed it, one day, to see if she was simply being paranoid, and when she found she wasn’t paranoid was utterly depressed instead), which does nothing for her concentration.

She has to sit so far back from her desk that it’s a stretch to reach her paperclips. Out of sheer cussedness, she doesn’t move them.  She is aware that this is dumb, but she can’t bear the admission of her size.  And people comment on her size, all the time.  It’s none of their freaking business, and the next person who says that she looks ready to pop will be the next pop-and-drop.

There are only two bright spots in her life right now, if you discount Castle, who goes without saying. One is Dr Maine, whose brisk matter-of-factness is very comforting.  The other, astoundingly, is Captain Gates, whose stick-up-the-ass, hard-nosed treatment of her is a breath of fresh air compared with absolutely everybody else, who are all far, far too interested in her progress and don’t overdo it and when will we be able to come see the babies and will she bring them in and they’ll need to get her a present and… and… and _will you all please get lost!_ Gates is as harshly critical about everything she does as ever Gates was, and most days Beckett thanks her stars for it.  Maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome, or something equivalent in pregnancy.  On the other hand, Gates hasn’t fired her from the assistant role.  They’ve _almost_ come to respect each other.  Liking is still a long way off, though.

“Well, Kate,” Dr Maine says, Castle waiting expectantly in the background, “you’re measuring at full term, and one of the heads has engaged. I know we’re four weeks short of singleton timings, but as we discussed back when, you’re having twins and you always seemed to be in advance of where you should have been.”

“Oh,” Beckett says, nonplussed. She’s been working so hard for Gates – she’s not going to let Gates get the better of her, no sir – that time has rather got away from her.  She grins suddenly.   “This’ll all be over?  I won’t feel like a beached whale?  I won’t have backache?”

“Backache?” Dr Maine says sharply. “How long have you had backache?”

“Just since yesterday,” Beckett says. What’s the big deal?  She’s got two cannonballs in half an ocean of fluid out front, why’s it surprising that she’s got backache?  It’s only surprising she hasn’t had it earlier.

“Have you needed to go to the restroom more often?”

How would Beckett know? She has to go every fifteen minutes.  “Uh…”

“Do you have cramp?”

“No…” Beckett suddenly realises where this is going.  “Oh my God.  I can’t be in labour.  I haven’t felt any contractions.  My waters haven’t broken.  We looked this _up_ , so I knew what would be going on.”  She pauses.  “We only got the birthing box from the pet store last week,” she wails.

“It’s okay, Beckett,” Castle says. “I got everything else at the weekend when you were having a nap.  The store was really helpful.”

“Do you feel heavy, or pre-menstrual?”

Beckett thinks. She supposes she does, a bit.  “A little.”  She looks at Dr Maine.  “Will you deliver my babies?”

“Babies are born, not _delivered_ ,” Dr Maine says tartly.  “They aren’t a pizza.”  Castle snorts.  “Kate, I think you should tell your boss that I have advised you not to return to work tomorrow.  You have my number ready?”

“Yes,” Beckett says. _Now_?  Babies _now_?  Castle is talking to Dr Maine but she doesn’t take in a single word.  “When do I need to be Onyx?  I haven’t been Onyx for three months because you haven’t let me.  What if I can’t shift?  What if I have to go to hospital?  I’m not _ready_ for this!”

“Kate!” Dr Maine says sharply. “You are perfectly healthy, the babies are properly grown and positioned, and we have discussed this on several occasions.  Unless you wish to change your preferences to a hospital birth, you’re as prepared as you can be.  Cats have been giving birth for thousands of years, and Rick has his vet on speed dial.”

“Vet?”

“Casey. The one who chipped you.”

Beckett would argue, but she has a very strange sensation in her stomach. “Um… I think we should go home now,” she says uncertainly.  “Um… Dr Maine, could you come too?”

“Sure. You were my last patient today.”

When they get to the loft, Castle has set up one of the upstairs rooms properly for a pregnant cat and subsequent kittens. Under Dr Maine’s eye, Beckett beaches herself on the couch for now, and considers the sensations in her stomach.  They’re very odd, and getting more so by the minute.  “I wanna go upstairs,” she says.  She has no idea why she wants to, but she does.  Dr Maine follows her.

“Do you want to shift, Kate?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead, then. But once you do, don’t change again for any reason until both babies are here.”

Castle rushes in with cat food and water. He looks even more terrified than Beckett, which takes some doing, and is quite ridiculous.  She’s the one who should be terrified.  It’s not him pushing out two cannonballs.  On the thought, she realises that the pressure on her stomach is much greater, and painful.

“Castle,” she whines, “it hurts.”

“Time to shift, sweetheart.  It won’t hurt nearly as much.”

She sits on the floor, there is a soft sigh, and Onyx appears. She licks herself incessantly, and then starts to yowl on and off.  Castle approaches, and she swipes at him, claws out.  He retreats rapidly.

It doesn’t hurt as much. Not nearly as much.  It all feels very, very weird, though, and she still couldn’t describe it as _pleasant_.  She can’t stop licking her stomach.  Every so often, she has an urge to squat, and push, so she does.  The rest of the time, she lies on a comfortably fluffy towel (she will, however, burn it later, she decides) and lets matters progress as they will.

Suddenly, she yowls louder, and there’s a very odd feeling of something dropping. She looks round under her tail, and there’s a _kitten_.  She can hear Castle gasping, and Dr Maine saying _first one, well done, Kate_.  She licks her baby clean, and tucks it against her feline nipple.  Ow.  It can _suck_.  No-one told her that feeding would hurt, she thinks petulantly, though the pain stops quite quickly.  Shortly, the pattern is repeated, and she has two tiny, closed eye kittens, both feeding.  They’re very dark grey, with misty spots.  She curls her tail around them to keep them close.  She can hear Castle say _they’re gorgeous_ , _I love you all_ with a hitch that means he’s crying, and then his finger pets her head and she manages enough energy to butt against his hand and flirt her tail as he very delicately pets the kittens.  A second later he’s in domestic cat form, rubbing noses with her and then curling around her back to keep her warm.  She’s very tired, though.  Her eyes close.

When she wakes up, she’s still Onyx, the kittens are still kittens, and Castle is sitting in human form right next to her with a besotted stare, simply looking at all of them.

“You’ve been asleep for a couple of hours,” he says. “I guess you’re okay.  Dr Maine’s gone, but she said to call her as soon as they shift so they can get the newborn shots and she can check them and you over.”  She flicks her tail in agreement.  She wouldn’t want to do anything much, but she’s okay.  She can just stay right here on this nice comfy towel with her beautiful kittens.  “I’ve taken some photos” – that better not be of the birth, Castle.  Eurrgh – “of the kittens, but as soon as they shift we’d better take some of them as babies.”

Ah. Yes.  That might be a good plan.  If nothing else, they’ll need to have something for their families.  She twitches her tail, thinking.  The kittens look like they’re asleep – at least, they’re not feeding.  She’d definitely know if they were feeding.  It tugs.  No time like the present, and anyway she wants to talk to Castle.  She can’t do that as Onyx.  The kittens are asleep, and as soon as they look like waking she’ll shift back.

She turns into Beckett. Castle squawks, which is stupid.  If he wakes the babies she will kill him – hang on, _babies_?  They were kittens.  How are they babies?  If they’re babies they need onesies.  They’ll get cold, and wake up, and cry. 

“Get them diapers and onesies,” she hisses. Castle does so, stat.  They each take one baby.  Putting on a diaper isn’t so difficult, once she gets it and the baby the right way up.  The onesie is a little more complicated.  It’s about that point she realises that she’s got their daughter.  Castle is competently dealing with their son.

“Better find somewhere to sit for the photos that isn’t the floor, Beckett. I don’t wanna answer those questions.”  No.  That wouldn’t be good.  Not at all.

“You take them through to the nursery, just for now, and come back for me. I could sit in the rocker.”

The rocker has a cushioned seat. Doing the birth bit as Onyx was a lot easier, but in human form she certainly knows about it.  Ow.  Castle helps her stand, props her up as she wobbles, and she realises that it would be a good idea to stop at the bathroom.  She thought the indignities stopped after the birth.  Clearly not.  Ugh.

Cleaned up and suitably padded, Castle puts both babies in her arms – oh, that triangular cushion of Lanie’s was a _brilliant_ idea – and takes approximately a million photos before taking another million which include him.

“They’re gorgeous,” he whispers. “You’re extraordinary.”

“Mm,” agrees Beckett. “They’re asleep, too.”  Her exhausted brain thinks of something.  “How didn’t they stay kittens?”

“Don’t know,” says Castle. “Who do _you_ want to be?  You’re the one who’s done all the hard work today.”

“We need to get Dr Maine back, first.”

Dr Maine returns, administers the injections, checks over the twins, who are loudly unappreciative of all of it, checks over Beckett, who is not much more appreciative about the necessity but considerably nicer about the whole business of checking; and departs on a veritable ocean of thanks. Beckett gives Castle back one twin and attempts to feed the other.  The first twin shrieks at jet fighter volume.  When she tries to swap them, the second joins in.

“They were quieter as kittens,” she says exhaustedly, as Castle snuggles them both against his chest. “How do we switch them back?  My ears are bleeding and I’m so tired.”

“You switch back,” Castle says. “I have a theory.”

 _He’s_ got a theory?  Beckett has a theory, too.  Her theory is that she needs sleep, and then food.  However… She shifts back to Onyx.

“I was right!”

Uh? She looks the long way up to Castle, who is now holding two kittens.  They’re still crying, though.  Castle puts them very gently in the crib, picks her up as if she’s spun glass and puts her in the crib too.  The kittens wiggle themselves into feeding positions, and stop crying in favour of milk.

“They’re synced to you. You change, they change.  Beckett, we’re gonna be okay!  They’ll be what you are.  We can show them off as soon as you’re ready, because as long as you’re human they will be.”

That sounds great. Now, just let her sleep, Castle, _please_?  She flicks her tail tiredly, then her ears, and shuts her eyes.  In the background, Castle takes a few more pictures.  The last thing she knows, Castle-cat is in the crib with them: all four of them happily cuddled up together with absolutely _no_ crying.

Parenthood is very cool for cats.

**Fin.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Cats Don't Get Morning Sickness. It is not the end of this story, which will shortly contain The Visitor, starring the immense form of O'Leary (an OC from What's in a Name) and then any further one or two shots in this insane universe.  
> Note that all stories are first published on Fanfiction.net, under the same name.


	7. The Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring the immense O'Leary, an original character from What's in a Name.

It would, Beckett thinks a moment after the door opens, have been helpful if Castle had _thought_ before opening the door.  It would, in fact, have been helpful if he had never opened the door at all.

She was comfortably cuddled up with her kittens, in Onyx-form to ensure that the babies weren’t crying for just long enough that everyone could have a rest (kittens were _so_ much quieter than babies), snoozing peacefully with her tail wrapped neatly round them to keep them safely in place with minimal difficulty for them to find the nipple to nurse, when the door opened.  Seeing as she was on one of the family room beanbags in full view of the door, shifting to Beckett-and-babies rather than Onyx-and-kittens was not an option.

Castle will no doubt claim sleep-deprivation as an excuse for not thinking. Beckett does not think that this is a good excuse at all. _Now_ what are they going to do?

Oh my God. Oh God.  It’s _O’Leary_.  Of all the – _oh God_.  Why him?  Why _now_?  It’s only three weeks post-partum.  Why didn’t he call?

“Hey, O’Leary. They’re sleeping.  Shhh,” Castle yawns, happily.   Happily, that is, for a given value of happiness, being the one which all their collective exhaustion can produce three weeks A.B.  That’s After Babies.

“Hey, Castle,” the mountain rumbles as quietly as he can manage, and Onyx-Beckett watches with amusement as six-foot ten of muscle tries to tiptoe inside. He is carrying two packages and a large bunch of flowers.  “I brought the babies a present, and Beckett some flowers and chocolate.”

Not _another_ pair of NYPD onesies, _please_.  They’ve got six pairs of those already.  Everyone from the precinct obviously thought it would be a beautifully original idea.  Suffice to say – it wasn’t.  Either that or there was a sale on, which is just as likely.

“Thank you,” Castle manages. “Lemme put the flowers in some water.”

O’Leary looks around. “Beckett asleep?  Babies asleep?  Man, you’re lucky.  Everythin’ I’ve ever heard ‘bout twins, one’s always awake.”

He spots the cats. “Aw, ain’t they cute?  I knew you had a cat” –

“You did?”

“Espo told me ‘bout its visit to the precinct. You let it sit on Beckett’s chair.  He thought you were suicidal.”

“She thought it was funny, when she saw the photos.” –

“but you didn’t mention the cat was having kittens at the same time Beckett was havin’ her babies. Funny that,” O’Leary says thoughtfully, “both of them havin’ twins at ‘bout the same time.”

Onyx-Beckett belatedly remembers that O’Leary is most dangerous when he’s pretending he’s just fallen off the hay wagon. He’s ambulating towards her and the kittens, with the sappiest expression she’s ever seen outside Castle’s face.  Mind you, he’s the size of a maple tree so likely that’s where all the sap came from.  She cuddles protectively around her kittens.  He might be a gentle giant but he could put all three of them in one huge palm.

Ah. Oh.   Um.  It’s just occurred to her that the only person who’s ever petted her as Onyx is Castle.  It has also just occurred to her that Castle is currently both ultra-protective (even for him: she’s amazed he didn’t just buy out a cotton wool factory to swaddle the three of them in) and rather jealous.  He is not at all going to appreciate O’Leary petting her, and he’s not terribly likely to appreciate him petting the kits.  Castle didn’t much appreciate O’Leary hugging her even before they were married.

O’Leary plonks his enormous bulk down on a convenient beanbag next to the three cats. “Y’know,” he drawls, “I’d never have put you guys down as havin’ floor cushions.  Beckett used to be so strait-laced an’ by the book.”

Castle grins in a very male way, though it’s definitely slightly forced. “Well, they have some advantages…” he says, and lets O’Leary draw his own conclusions.  O’Leary hums, and looks at the cats.  Castle’s tension level rises.  When O’Leary reaches out a sausage-sized finger and ever-so-carefully runs it over one of the kittens, Castle stops breathing.  So does Onyx, and her claws run out.

“Protective, ain’t she?” O’Leary says. “Lot like Beckett.”

“Yeah.”

Castle sits on the bean bag on the other side of Onyx’s throne.

“Where is Beckett?”

“I said. Sleeping.  You know what they say, sleep when the babies do.” 

Damn right. Except they never sleep, which is why she is Onyx all the time at home except when she’s a panther or they are _expecting_ visitors.  At least that way she’s getting _some_ rest.   Likewise Castle.

“Can I have a peek at the twins, then? Promise I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”

“Um…”

O’Leary pets Onyx again, and Castle tenses as he strokes her head and then plays with her ears. Castle _knows_ O’Leary’s gay, but that doesn’t seem to be making a lot of difference right now.  O’Leary pets one of the kittens, as delicately as a butterfly landing, which tiny kitten (it’s the girl) opens a sleepy little eye and turns round to find a giant.  The kitten meeps, and bats at his finger.  O’Leary puts the finger down, and the kitten pats at it some more, and then struggles on to his hand.  The other one turns to find out what’s going on, and joins his sister, made brave by her company.  O’Leary scoops them both up into his massive paw, and brings them up to his elephantine chest to examine them.

“She’s not worried at all, is she?” he says to Castle, who is beginning, to Beckett-Onyx’s experienced eye, to think that something’s going on.  It’s mostly concealed by his look of mingled terror and annoyance that O’Leary is petting her and picking up their tiny kitten-babies.  

Worryingly, to her experienced eye, _O’Leary_ is looking suspiciously intrigued already.  Beckett, Onyx or not and grindingly bone-wrenchingly exhausted or not, goes on alert.

“No,” Castle says.

“Strange, when she’s never met me. You’d think that she’d be frightened by a stranger taking her kittens away.” 

What is going _on_ here?  And why is O’Leary visiting so early in the game?  She doesn’t want visitors (they’ve just about put up with the family visits, once each week, each – individually, and even that was a strain), she wants _sleep_.  And Advil.  She might have been in feline form but she’s still sore.

“I’m here. She’s my cat” – she’ll wreak havoc on him later for that, _if_ she can stay awake or the babies aren’t crying or feeding or needing their diapers changed, so that’ll be two years from now – “and if I’m not making a fuss she won’t.”

“Oh,” O’Leary says, and snuggles the kittens, who extend their tiny fluff-ball selves to try to climb up on to his t-shirt. Onyx mews meaningfully, and they curl back down again till she settles.  Then they try again, and the cycle repeats a few times.

Castle watches his brave little kittens practising mountaineering on O’Leary, and thoughtlessly reaches for Onyx, who settles herself in his lap where she can watch her twins beadily.

“How is Beckett? I was a bit worried ‘bout her.”

“She’s fine. Twins are a bit of a shock to the system, but she’s doing just fine.”  He fondles Onyx’s ears, unthinkingly.  “She’s amazing,” he murmurs.  O’Leary looks sympathetic and slightly disgusted at the sappiness, which is unfair since O’Leary is still regarding the kittens as if they’re the cutest things on earth.

They are the cutest things on earth, of course. They’re _her_ babies, and they are the cutest babies _ever_ – when they are not howling, or don’t have dirty diapers.

“No-one’s heard from her since, only from you. Like she dropped off the face of the earth.”

“Definitely not. If you’d heard her muttering blackly every time I bring her a twin to be fed, you’d be pretty sure she was here too.”  Onyx swats him.  “Ow!” 

O’Leary raises an eyebrow. “Looks like your cat’s on Beckett’s side.”  A fluff-ball makes another attempt to tear his t-shirt, and he picks it off and puts it back on the cushion.  It protests, loudly.  Onyx stalks from Castle’s lap, picks her kitten up by the scruff of its neck, lies them both down on the central cushion and then tucks him in.  He nuzzles around and finds milk, at which point protests cease.  O’Leary keeps the other one, despite Onyx’s flat eared glare.

“She glares just like Beckett, too. Fact is, they’re surprisingly alike.”

“Yeah,” Castle says, commendably calmly. “Probably why I like Onyx so much.”

“The way you’re playing with her ears and tail, if I was Beckett I’d be jealous.”

“Nothing for Beckett to be jealous of.”

Damn straight, Castle. Onyx-Beckett’s conviction that O’Leary is trying to get at something becomes stronger.  Her investigative senses are beginning to holler.  She just doesn’t know what he’s getting at, yet.  He can’t possibly think that Castle’s spirited her away or murdered her and hidden the body.  In fact, it sounds just a little as if he suspects her triple nature.  He can’t possibly.  O’Leary is not Castle.  He doesn’t go in for insane theories.

O’Leary finally picks up on the nervously possessive, antagonistic stares of both Onyx and Castle. “Does she want this one back too?” he asks.

“ _She_ has a name.  Not ‘this one’” Castle points out.

Oh, _Castle_.  You _idiot_.  From O’Leary’s twinkling eyes that’s the break he’s been looking for.  She takes the option of least resistance and doesn’t claw Castle – or even better, O’Leary – to distract everyone.  Castle can get their asses out of this one by himself.

Or not.

“Does she?” O’Leary rescues his t-shirt again.  “Mischievous little furball, ain’t she?”  He pets her tiny head, and acquires an expression of extreme besottedness.  “What’s her name?”

Castle is so disarmed by the besottedness – dumb _man_ , is he so flattered he doesn’t see the trap? _Aaarrrrgh_!  

“Petra,” Castle says without any thought at all. Beckett will _kill_ him.  She will tear him to pieces and rend his bones.  Oh.  She already did kill him, to turn him into a panther.  And she needs him.  It’ll take both of them to deal with the endless feeding and diaper changing and lack of sleep.  She growls, audibly.

“Petra?” O’Leary queries.   “Thought that was the name of your little girl?”  Castle gibbers.  “Surely you din’t call the kitten the same as the baby?”  He smiles very widely and slowly.  “Guess you must’ve really lucked out.”

“Uh?” Castle says inanely. Beckett wishes she could put her head in her paws right now.

“They’re still asleep. All of ‘em.”  He grins, and small icebergs gleam.  “Funny thing is, the door through to your office is open, an’ I can see the bedroom door an’ that’s open, an’ anyways you got those open bookshelves ‘stead of walls – an’ I’ve done stakeouts with Beckett an’ she sleeps with one eye open like your cat here” – Castle can’t help the wince.  Onyx’s ears are flat against her head and her tail is lashing.  O’Leary pets Petra, who snuggles into the curve of his palm and then makes yet another determined assault on Mount Everest – “so I’m really surprised that none of this chattin’ has woken her.”  The grin expands even further, to show Antarctica.  “An’ I’m even more surprised that one of the babies hasn’t woken, since I’ve been here half an hour already.”

“D’you want a coffee?” Castle says hurriedly. “I’m so tired I forgot to ask.”

“Sure, that’d be good.”

O’Leary recaptures Petra and brings her up to inspect her. “She’s gorgeous,” he says.  “I like the spots in her fur.”

“They won’t last,” Castle says. “She’ll be – they’ll both be – coal black when they’re bigger.”

“Three black cats runnin’ round? Is that good luck or bad?”  Onyx hisses.  “Guess she thinks it’s good.”

“We’re happy with it,” Castle notes, bringing back some coffee.

“If you don’t want a tribeful, you’d better get them all neutered.”

Castle chokes on his coffee. Onyx yowls fit to wake the dead, which sets off Petra and her brother.

“Hell no,” Castle splutters, over the screeching cats. Onyx’s claws are full out and her eyes furious.

O’Leary strokes his tiny bundle of fluff until she stops wailing at fire-siren volume and begins to purr. Onyx curls protectively round the other tuft of fluffiness, and he quietens down.  Castle’s scarlet face slowly returns to its normal shade.

“Guess that din’t find favour,” O’Leary drawls, and slurps his coffee. Petra peers at the cup, sniffs, and sneezes disgustedly.  Castle puts his cup down so Onyx can take a sip, which O’Leary watches with knowing amusement.  The second furball uncurls from Onyx and essays an attack on Castle’s pants.  Castle picks him off carefully, and snuggles him up to his chest protectively.

“You didn’t tell me that’un’s name,” O’Leary points out.

“Didn’t I?”

“But before you have to make somethin’ up, c’n I just point out that my detectin’ skills have detected that in spite of the racket these little cuties” – Onyx hisses, and extends claws menacingly – “just made, there’s no cryin’ and no Beckett.” He pauses, meaningfully.  “Which might just be,” he says slowly, dropping the hayseed drawl, “because that’s Beckett sitting right there next to you and these are your twins.”

Less than half a second later there are two full grown panthers at his neck, a cub on the floor wailing, and one cub still in his hand. O’Leary sits very still indeed, absolutely white.  He puts the cub down very slowly and very carefully next to her brother.  The air is thick with incipient violence and menace.  O’Leary doesn’t move a muscle.  The smaller panther opens her mouth and displays very, very sharp white teeth, then puts a large paw on his thigh and extends her claws to pierce through his jeans and touch the skin over his femoral artery.  Green eyes carrying the promise of swift fatality flick to cold bright blue, and nod, just once.  The cubs have cuddled together, scared and silent.

Castle’s massive feline form shivers and becomes human once more. The tension in the air doesn’t lessen in the slightest as he picks up his cubs and pets them till they relax and purr.  He stows them safely in his lap and pins O’Leary with a hard, cold stare.

“I didn’t see _that_ comin’,” O’Leary manages.

“How did you know?” Castle grates. O’Leary looks straight back.

“I had my suspicions for a good long time. Long before you were ever around, _writer_.”  Beckett-panther growls ominously, paw flexing.

“Carry on,” Castle invites, coldly.

“I couldn’t work out how she could be hidin’ so well on stakeouts. No-one ever saw hide nor hair of her.  So I watched.  Wanted to know how she did it.  An’ once or twice I thought I saw her disappear, an’ once or twice I thought I saw a cat, but nuthin’ to speak to.  An’ then one night, there was a bit of a scuffle, an’ she went down, an’ suddenly this cat shot out the fight an’ then Beckett came back round the corner.  But I’d taken a punch to the head and thought I’d imagined it.  Then.  Year or so later, just before she went off to the Twelfth, it happened again.”

“I see.”

The panther’s claws retract, and she goes back to the cushion where her cubs are.

“I sure din’t know she could do _that_ ,” O’Leary says wonderingly.  His ham-sized hand reaches towards her.  Teeth are bared.  “Beckett, you gonna change to human an’ talk to me?”

“If she does, the babies will change too,” Castle says. “And they cry.”

There is a soft sigh, and Beckett appears. So do two cross babies, in NYPD onesies.  Castle takes his son.  Beckett picks up her daughter from his lap.  O’Leary simply stares at the two little red scrunched-up faces, which are indeed crying.

“C’n I cuddle one?” he asks hopefully, despite the wails.

“Sure,” Beckett says, and hands him Petra. “She seems to like you.  Maybe you’ll be able to stop her crying.”

Beckett herself snuggles into Castle, and shares their other twin.

“So what is his name?” O’Leary asks.

“David. Petra Katherine and David Richard.”

“Very nice,” O’Leary says approvingly. He tickles Petra’s tummy.  “I brought them a present.  Brought you chocolate, Beckett, since that’s never wrong.”  The babies have temporarily stopped fussing, soothed by their parents’ return to calmness and possibly the subliminal resonances of O’Leary’s bass rumble.  Petra’s tiny fists are patting at his chest, much as her tiny kitten-claws had done.  She appears to be confused as to why she can’t get a grip of the t-shirt.

O’Leary reaches the parcel and hands it over. “Hope you like it,” he says, embarrassed.

Beckett rips it open and discovers _not_ NYPD onesies, which already puts O’Leary on the credit side – for gifts.  There will be a discussion shortly about secrecy, backed up by threats which can be made good.  Or bad, if you’re O’Leary – but two beautiful wooden toys: a pull-along elephant and a pull-along giraffe.

“Thank you,” they say in tandem.

“These are gorgeous,” Beckett says, and yawns. David makes a noise that she recognises as preparatory to crying.  She takes a sniff.  Yep, diaper time.  Ugh.  “Castle – your turn,” she says, and passes him across.

“Sure,” he says and takes him away upstairs, from where howls of displeasure shortly emanate.

“It’ll be her in a moment,” Beckett says, indicating Petra, who is staring up at O’Leary and still wondering why she isn’t able to get a grip of his t-shirt when she could a few moments ago. She pauses.  “Nobody knows.  Absolutely not a soul.  No-one’s allowed to know.  Not even our families.”

“I never mentioned it to anyone before now,” O’Leary points out. “Why would I do it now?”

“Mm.”

“An’ I din’t know you could be a panther. It was a panther, yeah?”  Beckett nods.  “You can be you or a cat or a panther?”  She nods again.  “An’ the babies are whatever you are?”  Another nod.  “An’ Castle there’s the same?”

“He is now.”

O’Leary raises an eyebrow. “Now there’s a story worth the tellin’,” he rumbles.  Petra’s tummy wobbles in sync with the bass.  She makes a funny little baby noise, and then, just as Beckett thinks she’s about to howl, doesn’t.  Wow.  Maybe they should keep O’Leary around as a pacifier.  The plastic ones surely didn’t work.  They just spat them back out, usually with a dribble of milk posset for good measure.  Ugh.

“I don’t think so,” she says. How she changed Castle isn’t O’Leary’s business.  The exact circumstances of the bite through his jugular are _definitely_ private.  It had been an extremely – er – _athletic_ night.  From his wicked grin, O’Leary’s making some guesses.  He can guess all he likes.  She’s not telling.

“An’ _nobody_ knows but you two?”

“And you, now. Why’d you have to go poking your nose in anyway?”

“Seemed like a good time to find out for real, when you were both too tired to hide it.”

Beckett yawns, inadvertently. “Give me her back,” she says, and receives Petra, who rootles at her chest.  Noises of Castle coming down the stairs with a fussing David can be heard.  “You better talk to Castle for a bit.  I need to feed these two.”  O’Leary blushes.  “As a cat.  Less embarrassment all round.”  He blushes more brightly, and rivals the sun. 

Castle arrives, there is a tiny sigh and shiver, and suddenly and surprisingly the panther is back, together with two cubs, both of whom indeed go rootling for their milk. A black tail wraps around the cubs, and Castle settles himself so that her ebony head is on his lap where he can stroke it.  Of course, this also means that O’Leary has a perfect view of her emerald stare and ivory teeth.  She knows that Castle knows that this is quite deliberate intimidation.  Normally, she’d be Onyx.  The logistics of feeding twins are so much simpler as Onyx.  Many baby matters are so much simpler as a cat.

Generating terror, however, is best done as a panther. She smiles.  O’Leary regards her with a certain degree of nervousness.  The cubs continue to feed placidly.

“You’re not gonna talk about this, are you?” Castle growls. There is a distinct resemblance to the panther in his voice.

“Nope,” O’Leary agrees. “Beckett’s my pal.  I don’t rat on my pals.”

One cub decides it’s had enough to drink for now and pads back to him, wobbling dreadfully on its baby paws but absolutely determined to cross the two foot space, however hard it might be. It looks pleadingly northward and pats at his leg until O’Leary picks her – it’s Petra, naturally – up again and pets.

“’Sides which, they’re so cute. Wouldn’t do a thing to hurt them.”

“You’d better not,” Castle says dangerously. Beckett yawns, terrifying teeth on full display.  Tension thickens the air again.

It’s broken by David-cub finishing feeding and hiccupping loudly. Castle and O’Leary laugh.  Beckett coughs, panther-like.  Even as a cub, David looks confused.  He spots his sister and wobbles over towards her.  O’Leary scoops him up and puts them together.  Petra bats at David.  David tries to hide under his paws.

“Awww,” O’Leary coos. “They’re just exactly like you two.”  Castle growls.  Beckett coughs, again. 

O’Leary looks at his watch after a little more petting, cooing, and general sappiness. “Time I went,” he says.  “You need your sleep, Beckett.”  He gives her back the cubs.  Everyone becomes human again.  The babies look a little cross that they’re not feline, but snuggle into Beckett’s arms and close their eyes peacefully. 

O’Leary achieves the door, and puts his hand on the handle. “You got it all worked out, Beckett.  I gotta say, though” – he grins massively – “you guys are very cool, for cats.”

**Fin.**


End file.
